A spark will now ignite
by tutb88
Summary: One Good Day sequel featuring a new case, a new looming shadowy presence in Charles' life and his newly recognized strong affection for his boss.
1. Chapter 1

.

.

.

"Probably, I'm, am — really… Not feeling good…"

"You — shut the fuck up! And you!"

"Excuse me, sir, but with all due respect," Angel giggled and saluted: her bold and cheeky grin was swaying before Charles' eyes — a semblance to the damningly classic Cheshire Cat was striking. Thereby, the general craziness ensured.

This grotesque image was too much, so Charles rather swiftly twisted himself out of the firm grip and hastened to hide his face in the juncture of Erik's neck and shoulder, suddenly hit by an over-encompassing exhaustion. For now this was the safest place in the entire universe, while said universe tilted, dangerously. Well, he's going to be sick again with all probability — philosophically reflected Charles, only dimly aware of awkward background clamor.

"S' sorry," he mumbled, while his hand has grabbed Erik's forearm on its own accord. Charles staggered and for the entire blissful moment exploited the undeserved opportunity to press his body even closer to Erik's to the hilt. In this way he learned that this close, in such lovely proximity, Erik was indeed the most… Oh, goodness, the sound of his name barked in a gruff voice alongside horror are suddenly holding Charles rooted to the spot.

"Oh, oh Jesus! Charles! What are you doing!?" Angel's panicked shriek has cut through him like a knife. "Please, sir! Just don't hurt him. This is really, really not his fault!"

"Getting shit faced is always someone else's fault," got out Erik through gritted teeth, but contrary to his own words he was careful when he pushed Charles within arm's reach, never letting go of his shoulders.

"Damn it! Charles, look at me!" that tone meant that Erik was confused, and Charles has just discovered that Erik's eyes were not grey but almost blue. Curious, he cocked his head to the side and announced it aloud as that was a matter of such grave importance he couldn't let it lie neglected.

"Hold on a minute," told him Erik, harshly, words resonating with furious undertones. Erik, Charles absently mused that instant, was frowning in a very handsome way.

"You-you're drugged. Fuck!"

You're saying it as if it's something bad — Charles perked up at that, slightly offended, and almost instantly regretted it as the wave of nasty dizziness hit him with the viciousness of the big, really big sledge hammer.

"That was a joke! I swear, sir," was saying Angel somewhere to his left, while Charles struggled hard to discern separate words.

"Logan meant to give that glass to Sean. You know our Sean, right? It would help him to… to relax. After all, this is a goddamn wedding! Christ!" she carried on, half hysterical, "Who knew that Charles would take it?! Trust me, it was an accident!"

"Which proves that you lot are no more than the pack of bumbling, spiteful, irresponsible idiots," seethed Erik, tugging Charles along and, oh joy, letting him lean on his arm. "And these people are calling themselves police officers."

Charles decided to interrupt, solemnly to keep the conversation from getting too heated.

"Erik, you," it came out slurred, and not as nice as he was imagining it, "you shouldn't talk like that! You know that we're a good team. You're a great boss of the g-great team. Also, we like working with you too. I, I think so… For instance, I-I like, like you a lot." Proud of his genuine speech Charles' gaze, with some effort, found Erik's eyes and, greatly pleased with himself, Charles felt that he was finally regaining his focus. For the brief moment, the look on Erik's face was oddly plaintive, but only until he snorted, all traces of awkwardness vanishing as his features twisted into impressive scowl. Again. Oh my, try and guess what the man is thinking about. Reading Erik doesn't become any easier.

Meanwhile, Erik, went on, in his cool voice, reserved for special occasions, and that alone was holding Charles warranted in believing that he, this time, should not intrude.

"Don't even dream that oral reprimand is there it ends," Angel gasped in bitter indignation, all laughter long gone. Erik added, turning away, "I hope, the phrase disciplinary record sounds familiar to you, Logan and four eyes."

The clicking of retreating heels soon died. This is bad. Very bad. Charles gulped down the acid bile, but there was nothing else he could think of, nothing to redeem the whole situation. Except, it's never late to try, surmised he.

"Erik, please, listen…"

"No, not this again! Absolutely not. Don't even start!"

Charles was pushed inside the car quite harshly. Thus it was a little miracle that he hadn't struck his head.

"Even you should be angry," the mutter was barely discernible. "Have you seen yourself in the mirror?" snidely inquired him Erik then, shutting the doors with more force than strictly necessary.

"I… not, I didn't," he subtly looked to his right catching the glimpse of his haggard reflection. This very moment, a terrible sense of déjà vu darted through him like a bolt of lightning, burning his insides. No, Charles stilled — he can't afford to have a flashback right now. He's over it. He's dealt with it.

"…understand what could have happened? Besides, how did she even know that I was leaving this blasted party earlier? And dragging you, in your state, to the parking lot? Where is the logic? Admittedly, I might have overestimated Salvadore before. But now…"

Gods, Erik is doing it again — tiredly thought Charles. There was a momentary feeling of nausea, while the world swung and reeled about him, and the entropy of that maddening dance was absolutely, outstandingly revolting. He pressed his eyes shut, hoping to reign in the rebellious stomach. Too intense. His body was simultaneously heavy and light and his senses were going totally haywire.

Come on. This is unfair. These pills are supposed to make you feel nice. Why am I the one blessed with intolerance?

"Charles," Erik leaned over and lightly patted his knee, worried. "I should take…"

"Home," scarcely got out Charles, opening his eyes just a fraction to peer at his friend. The crazy party inside his skull has got a bit quieter — what a relief. "Please, Erik. Just take me home."

.

.

.

The truth is that Erik always silently cheers the end of each matrimonial union for the reason. Consequently, weddings are on his list of things he never ever attends as well; that's completely rational as they are clearly a waste of time, especially the wedding of that woman from Forensics. And yet, yet he did come. Had it not been for Charles, he would have never found himself there in the first place. But, had it not been for him… what would happen to Charles in that case.

"Are you," no he won't be asking whether Charles is alright. It would be totally inappropriate in these circumstances. So he asked instead, "Are you ready to go?"

For a long moment he heard nothing in response, though the bathroom door was hardly soundproof.

"Charles, are you," he paused. The stupid question has waited for this moment to escape his traitorous mouth, "Are you all right in there?"

"Fine," came the strangled response and Erik realized that he was holding his breath for a while.

"Police will be here soon," he said, before stepping away from the door and into the living room, glass cracking loudly beneath his feet. He should grant the man some privacy, but, to be completely fair, he was more than just worried this time. If he is right, and Erik is seldom wrong in this regard, Charles and trouble are the closest friends ever. The person who, like Charles, is used to wearing his heart on his sleeve, although lately tries to keep one's feelings and opinions hidden and fails spectacularly; the one like him is doomed to be hurt, grimly concluded Erik. Only, in Charles' case additional hazards come with the job. First kidnapping and now someone has broken into his apartment and turned it upside down. Erik rubbed at his eyes, which felt heavy and irritated, refusing to let his mind wander. Were it not Charles he would have inwardly laughed at the sorry bastard and offered to buy him a lucky charm. But, well, Charles was…

"Erik? What's the matter with you?"

He tensed up. A consoling thought that Charles hasn't noticed his nervous gesture quickly disappeared after he felt a soothing hand on his elbow. Yeah, Charles is indeed too tactile for his own good. Erik could bet his weapon collection that his partner doesn't even realize this; as well as he doesn't notice odd looks they have been getting since this strange _friendship_ has happened to be finally acknowledged.

"You are the one to ask," scowled Erik and quickly looked Charles up and down.

The sharp, stylish suit was only slightly rumpled. The same couldn't be said about Charles' face, the gentle features of which were sickeningly pale with patches of feverish blush. The living room was lit by white lights which emphasized the muted shadows on his face, making it look ephemeral. Bright, blue eyes were red-rimmed. Moreover, the natural amity of them was almost shaded, screaming of exhaustion and bone-deep weariness instead. Looking at Charles now Erik suddenly realized, with a pang of cruel, unidentified feeling — oh, he became so thin, maybe recently, and I hadn't paid any attention before.

"Do you have any idea who might have done this?" Erik curtly gestured to the upturned furniture and broken bookshelves, lying tattered on the floor, like the silent accusation. Watching mangled books and journals with purposefully torn pages was somehow the most terrible thing Erik has stumbled upon tonight. A violation. And he had sat through the entire wedding ceremony, don't forget that.

"I don't know," Charles heavily leaned on the doorframe, eyeing the mess around them with strange, unperturbed detachment. Erik has never seen him act like that and that's why he resolved to wait calmly for any sighs of something going _wrong_. More wrong, that is. Of course, he won't intrude just now. This is because he does respect Charles and inwardly understands that any other approach aside from the even, unobtrusive support would have been decidedly unwelcomed right now.

"But," looking genuinely confused, Charles shook his head, and buried one hand in his hair, absentmindedly tugging at it. "You saw that the doors were locked. Of course, it means nothing. Lock picking, for instance. Also," he let go of his hair, his hand migrated to rub at the temple, which was indeed a useless way to fight off dizziness if you ask Erik. "I still can't remember whether I've shut the kitchen window or not. Hence, we have to consider an emergency staircase too. Besides, nothing's stolen as far as I can… Well, suppose I can say," a sigh escaped him. In the meantime, Erik was legitimately impressed. Charles, however having spent the last couple of hours forcibly drugged and the last ten minutes hugging the toilet — accident, my ass, Erik will show them accidents — was nevertheless admiringly coherent.

"So, it has been planned ahead. It means, you need to consider another obvious motive — personal," sinks a bite Erik, careful not to press too hard. This is Charles, after all. Charles, who trusts him and calls him his friend; and who did everything possible to warm his way into the daily hell of Erik's life — be it for better or worse. He hadn't decided yet.

"I suppose," Charles closed his eyes and turned even whiter than before: Erik doubted that that pallor was owing to the remaining effect of drugs. "You might be right," he quietly said.

"Do you want to tell me?" frankly speaking, Erik found the situation quite bizarre. Had he ever considered himself interrogating Charles? Definitely not. No, he hadn't. Except, this was his job and the good old instincts kicked in uninvited.

"You don't need to use that look on me, my friend," Charles attempted a pale smile. "It's still difficult to concentrate, uh, but of course, I'll tell you."

The door bell rings, interrupting Charles midsentence and he exchanges a wide-eyed, bewildered look with Erik.

"They're a bit early," marveled Charles.

"Hey," Erik cursed their luck. Honestly, may the weddings be damned. Now he hasn't even got his sidearm on. "I will get it. You stay behind."

"Erik, surely you don't think…"

"I often wonder how you had survived on your own," it was enough to shut Charles up for now, and his indignant reaction never failed to amuse Erik.

After the door bell rang for the second time, impatient, Erik was already at the door, straining to get to the peephole through the general mess the hall has become without making much noise.

"Who's there?" that moment Erik hated how Charles' voice had faltered, lost.

"Looks like a sissy wimp with a brown tabby, who is very anxious to see you," levelly said Erik and looked curiously at Charles.

"Jason! And he brought Cat, thank goodness!" exclaimed Charles, alight with relief, and hastened to swing the doors open.

"Charles!" the young man looked from Erik to Charles and tried to offer a polite smile, "Is everything all right?"

Erik didn't like him at first sight, despite the pleasant, albeit somewhat frippery manners or, maybe, because of them.

The cat, which Erik has seen before only once or twice — the recollections were far from pleasant as the animal clearly hated him, meanwhile migrated to Charles arms and started clawing at his suit jacket in agitation: her cries piercing air and making Erik greet his teeth in frustration.

"This is my neighbor — Jason," Charles is anxiously trying to calm down his hilarious pet and provide introductions simultaneously. "Jason, this is Erik. My," he stammers minutely, oddly inept, "my friend. Hush, dear, everything's fine."

"Nice to meet you," freshly introduced neighbor offers his hand, keeping that annoying smile on. Erik firmly ignores him — his hands never leave his pockets.

"Unfortunately, I can't agree," calmly replies Erik and, pleased, observes how Jason's smile dims and the jaw trembles when he lowers his hand, eventually realizing that no one is going to shake it. After the proper pause filled in by oblivious Charles, who was muttering some nonsense under his breath, and the neighbor staring at him like a little girl whose teddy bear has just grown fangs, Erik starts, "Senior detective Lehnsherr, sir," at least his badge is here so he demonstrates it to the stupefied man, "I'd like to ask you a few questions."

"What questions? Charles, what is going on?" to Erik he sounds suspiciously alert.

"Well," for some reason Charles is looking right at Erik as if silently begging him to fill in the awkward silence.

"Someone broke in your neighbor's apartment, mister…"

"Stryker," he gulped.

"Okay, mister Stryker."

Stryker, huh? If he means that Stryker, someone here's got a daddy in the 'uppermost'. Shit, Erik has forgotten for a moment who was Charles exactly and where he lived. This fucking neighborhood is the cozy nesting corner, the snake pit as Erik puts it, the exclusive pit for rich and privileged.

"Have you heard anything unusual tonight?"

"Oh, Charles, I'm sorry to hear that," gasped Stryker with proper amount of shock as if aiming to win the most sympathetic person of the year award. "Yes, now, that you mention it…"

That's interesting.

"Your cat has climbed up to my place again. I live upstairs," explained the neighbor. Aha, so Charles did leave the window open. "You know that I don't mind, so I thought you left again and I was so taken up with rehearsing, that…"

"Why did you decide so?"

"Decided what?" dumbly asks him Stryker. Yeah, now Erik remembers Charles mentioning a violin playing neighbor. Must be him.

"Decided that Charles has left," patiently clarifies Erik.

"But his cat always comes only when he leaves."

"Erik," Charles gasps right behind his back, mildly horrified. It appears — his partner is standing closer than he expected.

He sheepishly tugs at Erik's sleeve then to attract his attention, "They're here."

Charles was right. The police were finally here, apparently, two men have just stepped out of an elevator.

The cops proved to be the ones of the common type of constantly tired, grim men, at war with everyone who could potentially earn more or were slightly better off. Almost with everybody, by default. Meanness was blunted into their eyes and settled there long ago. The neighbor, definitely a shady character, has disappeared after offering Charles to stay at his place and getting a civil, but firm refusal.

Erik grew furious when one of the policemen snidely implied that Charles was hardly in the position to issue any official complains, seeing as he himself was very evidently too intoxicated to be taken seriously. Were in not for Charles, Erik would have done something he might've regretted later. The desire to crash something, aside from things at Charles' — there was literally nothing left, had to remain buried until the right time comes.

"Erik, please, don't," as if the trace of anguish in Charles voice was not unsettling enough it robbed Erik of the power of speech. Okay, he can always find the bastards tomorrow, which he vowed to do first thing in the morning.

He snatched up the bag, which Charles has stuffed with some clothes and personal belongings. Charles once again was holding that feline, practically cuddling her impossibly close to his chest. This time, noted Erik, there was purring involved. It was a truly disreputable scene. It ought to have been. Still he couldn't possibly admit it to himself that something sharp, unspeakably hot instantly went through him at the sight.

As Charles was far from feeling good, it was mutually decided that Erik would drive him to the nearest hotel. Nevertheless, closely examining Charles' features not for the first time tonight in the uneven light inside of his car, Erik said, with resolution, which, he was absolutely sure, laced every single word.

"You don't need to go to the hotel," Charles barely managed to react when he finished, "You can stay at my place. There is a spare bedroom in case you worry about that."

"This is unexpected, though I'm grateful of course," Charles said slowly. "But what about Cat? You are not fond of her, I can say."

"Neither will be the hotel personnel," his response was instinctual.

"Good god," murmured Charles, drained, as he slumped into his seat, "Not exactly typical of you, Erik. No offence. And I'd rather sleep in the familiar place. Does that make sense? I don't know if it has anything to do with the pills but I feel that once I get to the closest flat surface… I just want to sleep very, very much. So, yes, you've saved me the headache of explaining the cat-issue to other people. Thank you, my friend," smiles at him Charles. For some bizarre, illogical reason, his smile manages to radiate more sincere gratitude than Erik though humanly possible. Especially, if one considers the events of the evening.

But, fuck, he's got himself quite a deal, somberly muses Erik. Cat lets out a single curious meow and promptly agrees.

.

.

.

The pillow under his head is soft. Even foamy soft. Charles' mind, though sluggish and not fully awake, still registers that he feels both weird and wonderful. Whenever he manages to sleep lately, his nights are full of fitful dreams, discarded pillows and twisted sheets. Charles mechanically ponders over this phenomenon for a while. For the time being, he feels splendidly weightless. So he exploits the rare opportunity to bask in the comfort of this warm, friendly bed by stretching from head to toe and pulling the blankets up and over his head. After doing so he sighs a little, pleasantly content as the action has made him pretty comfortable. Linens, now that he registers it, smell of almond and something distinctly flowery. They feel extremely nice where they gently touch his bare skin to the point when the contact becomes bordering on faint, but unmistakably sensual caress. No, Charles thinks to himself, reasonably rueful, I'm not making out with sheets. And just like that, with a start, the memories from yesterday return in a rush. In gruesome detail. His body, entirely relaxed before that, now freezes in trepidation.

In his heart, he hoped that it was nothing more but an extremely vivid dream. Wouldn't it have been too cruel if everything he remembers did happen. But the truth is — Charles has exactly that brand of bloody luck. Better look facts in the face sooner than later. Yesterday he exposed himself to endless mockery and humiliation. He, oh goodness, he was throwing up in the closet during the better part of his friend's wedding, embarrassed himself by attempting to climb on the table and he definitely… Oh no, his speech. Why did it have to happen during his speech? Why nobody stopped him?

Charles could think of nothing. Thinking seems singularly futile. The lack of positive ideas gets on his nerves more than anything else. He briefly entertains the idea, which mainly involves going to sleep again, chiefly because he may literally die of shame in case he sees Erik.

"Oddly enough, I never took you for a heavy sleeper."

His heart leaped, starting high and fast when he heard that gruff and bemused voice. Good grief, Charles swept away his embarrassment and abashment with certain difficulty, and, bracing himself for the worst he slowly, so very carefully, pulled the blankets slightly lower, peeking out of the improvised cocoon. Clearly Charles forgot that Erik from the precinct and Erik at home were two different people. This Erik, for instance, huffed out a breath and rolled his eyes at Charles, as he said:

"Come on, don't make that face now. I'd rather forget yesterday completely as if it never happened. Deal?"

"Deal," eagerly agreed Charles.

Bedroom turned out to be just a small room with the walls painted in two shades of green and only one large window. Charles doesn't remember walking into it, or getting into the bed at all for that matter. He does remember the car though.

"I reckon, I shouldn't even ask how I get in here," Charles grabbed the blankets a bit tighter, trying to sooth himself with a thought that at least he had a T-shirt and his boxers on. How did he put the former on, if, in all probability, he passed out on the way here, was a mystery he didn't want to think about.

"As you wish," generously replied Erik and stepped into the room. He went directly to the window on the farther wall and pulled the heavy mahogany curtains, letting the sunshine in. One playful sunbeam reached Charles' eyes and he squinted as he leaned against the headboard more.

That one ray of light boosts his mood and pierces through the feeling of guilt and inadequacy, so Charles decides — why not make an effort and look at the bright side of this summer morning and enjoy a good day off in a company of his friend.

"I don't know what about you, but all I want is breakfast," says Erik, the corners of his lips quirking up.

"Brilliant idea."

"So, you know where the kitchen is. Your animal is already there," there was a mild sarcasm in his tone, which forced Charles to grin.

"She often likes to sleep on the kitchen counter," he shrugged, "I wonder whether it's comfortable."

"Whatever," Erik shakes his head, exasperated.

After Charles was left alone, he caught himself smiling. That peculiar sensation was awake in his heart again. Having figured out very early that honesty, at least when applied to himself, makes life a great deal easier, Charles already knew what this feeling was. From the very beginning, he was immensely attracted to Erik in so many ways, a bit intimidated, but nevertheless sincere and always, constantly open to him. It was clear — Charles liked Erik a lot, no, even loved him. The realization came quietly, exactly two months ago when he and Erik walked down the street and Erik listened to him hypothesizing about the current case, adding sharp remarks from time to time. Charles was elated that evening; it was a wonderful comfort for him — to be heard, finally, to be considered as an equal. He recalls that moment perfectly: he turned his head to Erik in order to ask him something and at the same time the setting sun had cast the last reddish ray of light. It reflected off Erik's aviators, and Charles, literally blinded by that light, halted, shaken to the core by the abrupt understanding. He laughed then, and said some nonsense, while his world was smashed, broke violently into pieces and was instantly reorganizing itself anew. Around Erik. Of course, there was plenty of anxiety on his part, because the newfound rules — don't slip, keep your hands to yourself, watch your tongue — were anything but easy to follow. But Charles was happy, despite the ceaseless aching of his soul. And Charles was patient.

Hot, long shower helped him to wash away the stress and lingering discomfort of the previous day. When he stepped into the kitchen Erik was already setting the table. He looked up and made the gesture which indicated that Charles should sit down. From experience, Charles was well aware that Erik followed the strange guest codex, reminiscent of Hellenic traditions. He protested any kind of help in the kitchen or around the house when Charles offered. Being warned once, he never attempted to defy Erik again. After all, everyone was entitled to have certain domestic rules. And, frankly speaking, Charles thought this quirk of Erik's was absolutely endearing.

The breakfast was luscious. That and also Charles was almost uncivilly hungry.

"It was delicious, Erik. Thank you!" he managed, fighting the temptation to close his eyes tight and fall into a content slumber.

"It was not bad," nodded Erik, collecting the plates. There was something on his mind, as he was wearing that expression of thoughtful concentration.

"Let's," started Charles, but he never had a chance to finish as the companionable silence was interrupted by Erik's ringtone.

Erik wiped his hands with a towel, before reaching for the mobile. He shot Charles a look and picked up. Charles expected him to leave the kitchen, but Erik stayed. As usual, the conversation was short and by the end of it Charles anticipated the unenviable.

"Where?" he asked.

"Ledville."

"Ledville's ten miles from the city," Charles wondered, moving to stand.

"Apparently, there was a rock festival nearby," it was very nice of Erik to satisfy his curiosity. "This morning, they found the entire band slaughtered in their trailer."

Goodness, Charles has already regretted that he had had a breakfast. He hoped he would have spare time today, the whole day to change the locks and clean up his apartment at least a bit. Well, maybe thinking like that makes him an awful person in the light of all those terrible murders.

"Charles? We need to hurry," reminded him Erik, "Come on! Someone has to deal with reporters."

Erik is still in a good mood, is still teasing him. It means, Charles is actually moving in the right direction. With this in mind, Charles follows his partner, inwardly grateful that in spite of everything, he believes, he has just had an amazing morning.

.

.

.


	2. Chapter 2

.

.

.

Grimly he watched as the big, fat flies were buzzing noisily around the bodies, trying to sit on bloodied corpses from time to time. The stuffy air inside the trailer, well, inside the crime scene, was full of heady, somewhat coppery smell of gore. It made his eyes water. One more time Erik suppressed the insistent urge to vomit. He has already sent Charles out. Frankly, he was really surprised that Charles has managed to spend at least a minute in here. The unhealthiness of his color was enough of the indication that he was still not alright after that bloody party.

He took out the handkerchief from his pocket and carefully kneeled on it, on the floor, peering closer at the nearest corpse. Man's neck was literally slit open. In his mind Erik pictured a blade capable of this task. The edges of the gruesome wound were efficiently neat, if that adjective could be used to describe wounds. Looks like someone's brought a hunting knife to the party — flashed a humorless though. He didn't chase it away. Instead, he stood up, straightened and slowly, deliberately looked around one more time. He went over every detail he has seen one by one. Four bodies, four members of the infamous so-called rock band. One is on the floor. Another one is sprawled on the low table. Two are lying next to the overturned chairs, which, by the looks of it, were brought here from somewhere else. The chairs do not match. And so, numerous stabbing wounds and a slit throat and as a result we have a real blood bath here. Messy. He knew why not, but suddenly he was seized up by the uprush of emotion. He felt it in his bones. Something was not right. It's like a monstrous wrongness still stayed in, biding its time. But Erik, all the same, could not see it.

A police photographer was muttering blasphemy, while crouching in the crumpled space between the couch and the wall. Though the habit of ignoring others did provide Erik with an excellent opportunity to isolate himself and think, yet, it was absurd that the only thing that sprang to his mind was — shit, the likes of Darkholme will be having a field day with this.

Next, he turned to the exit, feeling that he's also reached his limit and needed to get the hell out of here. Okay, judging by the general impression: no one was aware enough, or had enough time, to flee and scatter, it seems. Or did they? They'd been killed in a minute or so — everyone, even Cassidy, could reach that conclusion. Either way, the person who did it or people who did it, were certainly very efficient.

While tearing off his latex gloves, Erik pushed through the doors and hurriedly exited the trailer. The terrible smell of massacre lingered, enveloping him like a cloud of rancid, grave sourness, tainting his clothes. Damn. That's why Erik considered summer his least favorite season.

Outside, the daylight was bright and the sky could boast the absolute absence of clouds. The blueness was too overwhelming, so he slid his eyes shut and after opening them had to blink several times to get rid of black dots, blurring his vision.

Charles was coming closer from the direction of the ambulance. He had his suit jacket in the crook of one arm and the first two buttons of his crisp, white shirt have been unbuttoned. Due to the obnoxiously sunny day there were sparks of nice coppery redness in his otherwise auburn hair, which was already wind-ruffled. In the distance he came across as one of the interns, not a fellow police officer. Erik smirked to himself while stepping down the stairs right when Charles approached. Then, they just fell into step with each other. As usual.

"The search area has been widened to five miles," reported Charles, squinting at his watch. "They must have already started."

"It's useless."

"Well," he mildly said. "The only witness we have reported that he saw someone running away from the trailer and into the forest. That's worth trying."

"When did you…"

"While you've been in there," Charles quickly glanced at him, making a discreet move to wipe the sweat from his brow.

Erik turned to him at that moment, noticed how the damp hair started curling where it was plastered to Charles' nape. He instantly looked away before Charles could catch him staring. Idly he thought, that the heat was slightly too much for this time of the year. No wonder everyone was even more slothful than before.

"I talked to their manager," explained Charles, interpreting Erik's silence as the sign to go on. "Not the most pleasant experience of the day," muttered Charles whose personal observations were rarely condescending.

"Is it so?"

"Ah, yes," they stopped in the shadow of the appalling orange tent and Charles continued. "He appears to be having a nasty hangover. Hence the rudeness. Yesterday there was a final concert and, I suppose, everyone got a bit, um, overexcited."

Erik was gazing out at a field which has previously been populated with numerous tents and young and not very young people fooling around the portable stages and absentmindedly littering the ground in the two mile radius. Erik had some ideas what exactly they might have been engaged in during those three festival days. He remembered Magda dragging him to one of those festivals, remembered how happy she seemed and how vibrant with joy and expectation. He'd just graduated then and... Sudden noise helped Erik to snap out of his unexpected reverie that had nothing to do with reality. Need to let the dead stay dead, he reminded himself with bitter determination.

Unfortunately, Charles was speaking to him all the time while Erik's attention was elsewhere but right now he stuttered and looked up. Seeing that Erik has missed everything that has been said he was thankful for distraction. He turned around in order to find out what the source of that noise was. The huge stage, which occupied a patch of field near the small pond, was in the process of being deconstructed. The workers have already started taking it down. Damn it. Great is too weak a word. Couldn't _"Mutants"_ have been killed earlier when there were still some people around. Suspects to question and to monitor. Now, herding everyone seems as futile as, say, herding insects.

"It's a pity, but most likely we can't stop hundreds of people from leaving," sighs Charles, catching Erik's unvoiced irritation.

"That's a brilliant observation," snaps Erik, and then inwardly curses.

And Charles just looks at him with those innocuous, startlingly bright eyes of his.

"I shouldn't have stated the obvious," he calmly says and finally lowers his gaze to the ground. "Tell me what to do so I won't be wasting any more time."

Erik faintly wonders why the two of them are constantly on the verge of a quarrel. Only since that terrible wake-up call in winter, since Charles has nearly died and survived and fought his way back on his own, since then Erik is the one who fairly often feels that he loses rather than wins the never-ending arguments.

"We have to split," he considered their situation and further arrangements, needed to be made. "Try calling Logan again and tell him to get to the precinct this instant. Make sure that those slugs from the Forensics do their jobs. Tell them it's urgent. As usual, we'll need a full criminal record, if there is any, concerning our victims. Detailed, if possible. Better speak with family members before reporters do it."

"Alright," nodded Charles. "But why split?"

"I'll go to Ledville. Fortunately, I know their captain and this fact might help us, or not. I'll try to encourage him to offer some assistance in any case."

"Of course, you will," Charles hummed, soft amusement evident in his voice. Erik noticed it with relief.

"Take the keys," he offered and the other frowned.

"I can manage. Besides, this is your car, Erik."

"I say, take the keys." Metal was warm, and for a second Erik got disgusted with the feeling. He scarcely brushed Charles' fingers when passing the keys. Charles nearly jumped at that. Odd. Unless he was lost in his thoughts too and didn't expect Erik to insist. Perhaps, that's why he was agitated. Then rational thought came to him: well something was really wrong as Charles had had his apartment broken into, indeed. And Erik had neglected asking him about it in the morning. Not that Charles was that eager to share.

"Thank you. I promise, I'll be careful," said Charles and he was already a few steps away when Erik called his name.

"Here, I might be late…" Erik shortened the distance between them in the blink of an eye. He held out the key. Sparkly fob, secretly attached to it by his mother in the act of defiance, no less, shone like a piece of vulgar, cheap jewelry.

Charles' expression was conflicted.

"I assume, you're staying the night," ventured Erik. Charles started to say something but stopped, so he filled in an awkward pause. "You're welcomed to stay as long as you need. Take the key. I've got the duplicate."

"I've got too much to thank you for as it is, my friend," it seemed impossible for Charles not to smile. And it was only one of many things that chained people to him.

"You can thank me by filing a report on time."

"Right," he nodded. "Take care, Erik."

Erik shrugged and turned around, quickly covering the distance back to the crime scene. After he came in sight of the local police cars, parked opposite the trailer, the feeling of unease reappeared. Okay, he must look at the crime scene again and then get back to calling a couple of favors in.

.

.

.

Upon arriving Logan notified Charles that his hangover was mean, his boss was a fucker and he never liked this band in the first place. That's why Charles had to excuse him. It only meant that seeing as Erik was not in the vicinity, there would be a lot of rude remarks, harassing important witnesses, occasional and very obvious attempts to refill paper coffee cups with beer and the obligatory smoking.

But the man was useful. Charles couldn't deny that.

Although, after having spent almost eight hours doing the usual routine in the company of Logan Charles started to appreciate his presence a little bit less.

Erik called when he was just getting out of the car. He instantly picked up.

"Well?" Erik really liked to get down to business quickly.

"We visited the families, talked to remaining relatives," Charles leaned back, forgetting for a moment about the dust collected on the hood and mentally cringed.

"Possible suspects?"

"Aside from the mysterious someone leaving the trailer that night…" he paused, took a deep breath and started to explain. "I'm afraid, we're stuck with that for now. And Hank is now looking through their accounts, uh, both public and private of course, checking the browsing history…"

"Fans?"

"Probably. There were some threats, but their manager has assured me that's the routine," hesitated Charles. "Anyway, as soon as he remembers something worth our attention, he will call."

He heard a meaningful grunt in response.

"Also, speaking about the victims. It appears, that the lead singer, uh, known as Sprite and in the real world Ms. Kitty Pryde used to be in the relationship with the drummer of the same band. Bob Drake, 22 years old… " Charles involuntarily sighed and squinted at the shabby doors of the café on the opposite side of the road. Logan has bullied him into stopping for a snack. Charles, on the contrary, couldn't find it in himself to eat anything at all. The vivid picture of the morning massacre is yet effectively raising the acid bile in his throat.

"Hm, that may lead us somewhere."

"Already on it."

The doors finally opened only to let out one elderly man. Damn Logan for leaving his mobile in the car. Knowing him well Charles suspected that this had been the plan from the start.

"Don't forget…" started Erik when two drop top cars rushed past him and the next words were wiped away by the sound of grumbling engines, laughter and eardrum-shuttering music.

"Sorry, I didn't catch that," mumbled Charles apologetically after the noise died in the distance.

"Can't even imagine where are you now," drily commented Erik.

"Next to the pier, actually, and the amount of graffiti speaks for itself," the echo of the music still reverberated inside his skull. Hold on a second…

"I have to go," quickly said Charles. Yes, he couldn't be mistaken. That was the song… Sean was messing with the radio in his car recently. Yes, that's where he's heard it.

"What do you mean?"

"I'll explain later. Now if you excuse me, sir," Charles quickly pressed the button and didn't realize that he was holding his breath until Sean asked him what was the matter.

"Sean, do you have a minute?"

"It depends," carefully treaded Sean, "because recently Hank has asked me the same question and I got myself into reading some crazy forums and chatting with crazy people while pretending to be one of their kind."

So, Hank has mastered the art of delegating. Good for him.

"Sorry for that," he offered the words which have been expected of him.

"You do know that my vacation officially ends only tomorrow?" half-whined Sean. "Fine, what can I do for you?"

Charles told him and soon had the lyrics of the "Summer Mash" e-mailed by the dumbfound-sounding Sean.

Logan saved him the trouble of crossing the street. He casually strolled to the car carrying a paper bag and emanating this peculiar reckless aura of the person who both owned and didn't give a toss about this city.

"Decided to get some tan, Xavier? I'm done. Get into the car and let's get out of here."

Charles eyed him rather coldly. Technically, Logan had a superior rank, but Charles was the only person in the division with an Oxford degree and, also, only technically, that put him on one level with the commanding officers. Not that he liked to be reminded about the fact. Erik has previously considered him useless and uppish exactly because of that.

"What took you so long?" he calmly asked instead, firmly clutching the keys and not moving an inch.

"No need to be gross, Xavier," drawled Logan and lifted a bag to his eye-level. "Here, I brought you a consolation sandwich."

"Logan, this is not a picnic."

"You sure? Because I really thought it was."

Charles was patiently and systematically counting the seconds; calmly looking at the man, before his colleague finally snapped and broke the lengthy silence.

"Aw, fuck! You're such a prissy bastard."

Unfortunately, Charles was not going to hear any apologies today as they have been interrupted in an abrupt fashion. The enraged scream down the street attracted their attention. All of the sudden the sound of the broken glass added to the cacophony and Charles gulped, watching as three teenagers, one armed with a broad, flat club, were running in their direction. The woman, who came running out of the small florist's shop, was swearing and screaming at the top of her lungs. Logan stepped ahead and the bunch of kids hesitated minutely, before giving their car a wide berth.

The next thing Charles remembered was dashing after the juvenile delinquents. Logan caught up with him incredibly fast and took his forearm in a steel grip, preventing Charles from moving.

"Let go," Charles' voice at that moment sounded foreign to his own ears.

"No," grumbled Logan and tugged him back.

The shocking punch to the jaw caused Logan to stumble backwards. He proceeded to stare at Charles until Charles looked away.

His mind was unexpectedly clear and although his very being screamed _wrong _at him Charles knew that Logan was maybe, perhaps, right. There was no guarantee he would catch up to them in the unfamiliar area and in case he did.. what would he do? Threaten them with a gun, which was not loaded, or read them a lecture?

"Logan, I…" he couldn't find proper words.

"Idiot," smirked Logan and wiped the tiny trickle of blood from his split lip. "At least you punch all right. Who knew."

Charles huffed at that and nervously relaxed his fists.

"Look here, Xavier," seriously said Logan, turning his back to him and walking to the car. Charles followed, surprised by the unexpected change of tone.

"Cops assigned to patrol the area will deal with it much better. At any rate, you already have a huge case to solve. That's what we need you for," Logan spared him a brief look. "We need your brains. So you are not expected to run after minor vandals or chase brutal murderers on your own. And Lehnsherr was very persuasive when he… Damn!" Logan snapped his mouth shut, but a few unintended words were more than enough of the prompt for Charles.

Immediately after hearing that, he felt the urge to hit something again. Apparently, his boss has threatened his colleagues into babysitting him and nobody told him anything. And he never paid attention to that simple fact that someone was constantly following him wherever he went. It's just… Fantastic. Bloody great.

.

.

.


	3. Chapter 3

.

.

.

This time Charles woke up abruptly, coming to a grip on his shoulder and automatically tried to get away from the attacker. A moment later he forcefully willed himself to be still, the half-formed feeling of dread giving way to the hot wave of embarrassment instead.

Erik took a step away. Deliberately slowly.

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"Yeah, I know."

Charles groaned, pushing the hair from his eyes and then winced when he felt the tell-tale stiffness in his neck and shoulders claiming its revenge. That's what you get for falling asleep at the table. He must look as terrible as he feels right now darkly mused Charles, taking in his surroundings. Yesterday, he came home before Erik, as predicted, and decided to wait for him. He certainly remembers that he had looked through the footage of the final concert sent by Hank and then he definitely made himself a cup of coffee before sitting at the table and opening his laptop. That's where the memory ends.

He looked up at Erik, who was shuffling around the bookcase in the corner of the living room. It appears he came home just a few minutes ago. Exhaustion really did a number on Charles if he didn't even hear the sound of the opening door. Gods, Erik doesn't need another proof of his inability to be on guard. He carefully looked Erik up and down, noting the loss of the tie and the smudges of dirt on the sleeves of his grey suit. The same could be said about his trousers. A rough walk through the forest? Perhaps.

"So," Erik turned around and met his gaze. A shiver passed through Charles. Erik, though cast in shadows, looked painfully, incredibly handsome. "If you are going to ask, do it now."

"You went with the search team?" rasped Charles, eagerly. "Why?"

"Because it was necessary at the time," his shoulders slumped only a bit, "and proved fruitful."

"The knife?"

"Yes, we did find the knife. Someone did a sloppy job of cleaning it, so now we've got a fingerprint. It's not in the database though."

"Any luck with locals?"

Desk lamp produced enough light for Charles to notice how Erik's face instantly darkened a shade and then his expression cleared just as quickly. But Charles had already read the rage and the hint of defeat.

"Let's go to the kitchen," he hastened to say. "It's… Oh dear, it's 5 a.m. Well, there's no time for the decent rest anyway. At least, we can have an early breakfast. I ordered a takeout yesterday. It's still in the fridge."

Erik shrugged and followed him and that was pretty much the end of the conversation.

They arrived in the precinct earlier than everyone else and Charles was desperately trying to force his mind into the working mode. It's rarely been this difficult before. Sean and Angel would blame the magnetic storm, but Charles rationalized that the general lack of proper rest and excessive stress are more plausible when it comes to proper reasons. Both are also less likely to dissipate on their own.

"Charles." Erik pronouncing his name with gravity can have only one thing in mind.

"Erik," he sighs, and in order to mask the agitation, not that he has ever succeeded, approaches his desk. He is sure that his clumsy attempt to reorganize the folders is doomed to give the game away. Somehow he couldn't help pretending that nothing happened. He sort of promised to tell Erik everything himself, but now he wishes he hadn't done that.

The voices in the corridor signaled the arrival of Sean and Angel and Charles let out a relieved breath. Too soon.

"Quit biding your time. I need to talk to you about the forced entry in your apartment," firmly said Erik. "And I don't appreciate talking to your back."

It was difficult not to flush with shame, but he managed to do it.

There was a door bang.

"Morning!" said Angel in the uncharacteristically loud voice looking too much too innocent and Erik scowled at her. Sean dutifully echoed her greeting and gave a slight wave.

"My office. Now."

If Erik's voice was not stern enough, well, then his expression was doubtlessly bordering on murderous. The weight of grave apprehension settled itself on Charles' shoulders. All right, Erik must be worried and a touch irritated. But, Charles bit his lip, amid the conflicting emotions the strongest now was a startling prickle of fear. He braced himself before stepping after Erik and closing the door.

"Charles," Erik didn't take his seat. He remained standing with his back to the window, arms crossed in front of his chest, and he was wearing a frown, which looked more discontent on him than his default frown usually does. "Why are you acting as if I'm going to accuse you of murder?"

Charles subtly shook his head. Unable to look Erik in the eyes, he directed his gaze towards the plain picture on the opposite wall. He despised himself for this; intellectually he realized how pitifully childish he was coming across.

"You seriously underestimate me if you assume I don't know what's going on," Erik said levelly. "Ah, I see that got your attention," he hummed in mild satisfaction as Charles couldn't quite conceal the flinch and continued. "Your step-brother, correct me if I'm wrong, has recently arrived in the city."

Anxious, Charles made a curt gesture, aimed to indicate his agreement or something, for his heart chose this exact moment to plummet dramatically and the thought of Erik noticing his distress was beyond simple embarrassment. He inwardly laughed. Bitterly. He strongly suspected what exactly Erik was seeing and could probably bet on what Erik was thinking. He, himself, will never master the art of interrogation that well. The timing, the elusive yet heavy pressure, and the skillfully delivered blow…You have to be born into this stuff.

"This is a matter of a long-distance family relationship, my friend," he said earnestly, the familiar address slipping naturally, as he became truly determined to tie the loose ends at last. "You also should not disregard my promises so lightly."

"I never did," huffed Erik, narrowing his eyes and scrutinizing Charles all the same. "But being your superior officer I can't let the matter lie neglected. You should know by now that there's no such thing as privacy in these quarters. Also, I'd be a lousy detective if I hadn't figured it out on my own. A little background check is all it takes. And your family used to be rather famous. It doesn't take a genius to read between the lines and put two and two together."

"Well, it's an alarmingly good piece of information," Charles paused, contenting himself with what was coming next. His voice was slightly husky and strained. Considering the circumstances, it was the least of his worries. "He… Cain probably didn't do it himself. As far as I remember, and I do remember well, trust me, he's got neither enough intelligence nor subtlety to break into a house without leaving a trace. That doesn't mean he's got no money to, say, order this done and thus keep his hands clean. No use tracing it back to him. The alibi is definitely foolproof, I, I believe so," this little tirade made his throat painfully dry and scratchy. "Also, after the last time he will try to avoid the direct confrontation in all probability. I take it, this is, hm, his special way of saying hello."

"And what if someone got hurt?" didn't give up Erik, stubbornly missing Charles' internal speculation turned into epiphany.

"Hypothetically speaking," he slowly said, "everything is possible. Nevertheless, it never happened."

"You are just too reckless when it comes to your own safety," grimly stated Erik, still refusing to let the subject go.

"And that's why you assigned some bodyguards for me?" briskly retorted Charles in a moment of flaring irritation.

"Don't exaggerate," Erik shifted his position and leaned on the desk, his posture speaking of potent, unyielding conviction. "I just see no use in you wandering on your own. That's it."

Charles' inbred sense of rightfulness seemed not fully satisfied. He attempted to come up with a proper remark in response but instead felt a disturbing hollowness inside, having been literally taken apart by the one he, what, cares about too much to confront, whose respect and amiability he strives to earn so hard. Goodness, no one warns you that caring for someone can hurt that much. Because right now all he wants to do is turn around and leave, and he can frankly say with considerable certainty that he rather prefers not being close to Erik for a while. Okay. Not for long, that would be difficult.

"Charles, you…" unnoticed, Erik stepped closer and in doing so has intruded into the fragile mental plane. Involuntary, Charles backed away until he almost collided with one of the chairs.

"Excuse me," he managed to get out, albeit not very graciously. "If we are done, I can go and actually start working."

Like earlier this morning Erik's face has shifted minutely, displaying the brief flash of anger and resentment, before he schooled his features back into his habitual stony expression.

"Yes," was the blank reply, "we're done."

.

.

.

It was cold here. More so, he could clearly discern the smell of the disinfectant which has always associated with hospitals. Funny, isn't it? The morgue smells almost the same.

White fluorescent light made the environment look pristinely devoid of life. Discreetly, he observed the interaction between Charles and Dr. MacTaggert, scanning the report. Their exchange is curious to monitor, some sort of distant amusement is often provided by those brief conversations. He's caught a single remark, something about the wedding, and swiftly stepped out of the hearing range. No use listening to Charles' desperate apologies and that woman's reassurances. Nothing new.

After a moment of quiet contemplation, Erik decided that enough was enough. When he approached the area where examination tables stood, two heads turned into his direction. Charles smoothly and unobtrusively slid closer to the doctor's side and that left Erik the only other option — that is, to stand opposite them. In passing, Erik registered a random, solemn thought, more like a question, — how long will it take Charles to get over this ridiculousness. The man can surely hold the grudge for days, despite the initial misleading impression. Speaking about misleading impressions.

"Interesting," MacTaggert sternly nodded at the closest bluish corpse with a slit throat, as if expected the detectives to see underneath the obvious. "The traces of the psychedelic drug in blood, or formally classified as such, evidently caused the general poisoning. I'd presume that without proper medical care these people would suffer grave side effects, or, could, presumably, die," she pulled the zipper up and Charles closed his eyes in brief relief before snapping back to full attention.

"Overdose?" ventured Charles.

"Most likely," her mouth twisted into a grimace, betraying certain dislike towards this particular kind of demise. "Nowadays, synthesizing reached new heights. It takes less and less drug substance to get the desired result. Though some people seem to reject it. Usually it results in bouts of nausea, headaches, dizziness and etc. This is not my area of expertise, you know. I'll send the results to my colleague in the university; he'll provide you with the necessary information."

They started talking simultaneously and Charles, glancing at Erik out of the corner of his eye, snapped his mouth shut in wary apprehension. In that moment Erik wanted to growl.

"Is it possible to find out whether two samples of this drug are of the same origin?" asked Erik, feeling the strange anticipation, like invisible icy needles pricking his skin.

"Provided that you bring enough stuff, why not?" thankfully MacTaggert didn't ask unnecessary questions. Very sensible of her.

"Thank you, Moira," said Charles as she smiled at him, casually reaching to pat his shoulder.

"You're welcome, Charles. Are you sure that everything's fine? You look too tired."

"It's nothing," he hummed quietly in response, shrugging away her touch as he stepped forward.

When the doors of the laboratory closed after them, Charles noticeably quickened his pace, frowning at something his positively restless mind was currently occupied with. Erik didn't hesitate to force him out of this state by moving to catch his elbow and prevent him from bolting ahead. Damn, now he has to rack his brain really hard how to settle the issue, which was not supposed to exist in the first place.

"Sir?"

Charles froze where he stood, both complacent and very guarded. A strange mix he somehow manages to project every single time Erik speaks to him since the memorable conversation two days ago. Here Erik prefers an understatement to an overstatement of the matter, mildly furious, as he is right now, for being politely ignored in a way which made him regret and even panic at how dependent on Charles he suddenly became.

"Charles, what the hell?" met with a dubious look, Erik let his smirk twist the corner of his mouth. "You know what I'm talking about."

"I do," Charles scowled slightly, glancing at Erik and then to the side.

"When why…"

"Because you're my friend, that's why! That's why, it's so damn difficult to get over you being all your efficient, aloof self when you do, do this," he uttered in one go and finished, lowering his voice, "I mean, when you make me confront something I was not, well," he sighed. "Please, forget about it."

On the face of it, the problem now seems easy.

"You managed to confront it quite well, I'd say."

"Erik," Charles pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, "I do know that you did it on purpose, that I was the one beating about the bush, and you probably wanted to help me. If your basic intentions are nice, the same couldn't be said about your methods."

"Okay," nodded he then, not exactly sure how to proceed from here. After a moment, he felt it appropriate to let go of Charles, so he did. Charles absentmindedly rubbed his arm, where Erik's grip was only a second ago and hence the annoying guilt flared up. Again.

"While we are on the subject," started Erik, careful for good measure. "How's your apartment?"

"Fine. More or less," visibly relaxed Charles, when he understood that Erik was willing to offer him a way out of this.

Then they fell into the comfortable conversation, Charles spoke of the same thing Erik's previously thought about. What if Logan could shed some light on the newly revealed information? After all, he was the one carrying around potentially lethal drugs, even if it was a one-time occurrence, well, he hoped for Logan's sake that it was. He didn't like the direction his thoughts were taking.

In the long corridor connecting the laboratories to the main building, they have been met by Salvatore. She stood next to the open window, in sunlight. Wearing a light brown blouse and a skirt of decent length she eventually succeeded to maintain a proper image, befitting of the detective. As thankful as Erik was for the drastic change of attire he never mentioned it, wary of giving her wrong ideas. The conditioning was out of order in this part of the building, so she was fanning herself with what looked from this distance like a thick case folder while talking on the phone. When she darted her gaze towards the sound of approaching steps and finally saw the pair, she send them, mainly Charles of course, a half-relieved, half-nervous smile.

"It seems sometimes, that this is just my part," she sighed, snapping her phone shut with a click. "I mean, announcing the bad news."

"Ah, don't tell me," interjected Charles, warily, talking mostly to himself.

"We have one more dead body to add to the four in the morgue," Salvatore explained. "Car accident. Maybe. Two hours ago Mr. Pirson, yeah, this is our favorite manager, was found dead on the sidewalk, ten miles away from his residence. Cracked skull and various fractures included. No witnesses, no cameras in the vicinity, just a quiet roadkill. Can you believe it?"

"Angel, a little respect, please," chided Charles in the familiar attempt to set everyone right.

"I'm begging you. You questioned him yourself. Hardly a man to be missed."

"Salvatore, I don't keep you here so that you could exercise in sassiness," cut in Erik.

"Sorry," she sobered up and remarked. "But this's gonna be very problematic. We still have four deaths on our hands and now this, possibly connected to the tragedy on the festival. First, the band, now the manager."

"Goodness," Charles ran his hand through thick locks, frustration in his voice. "A car accident, you were saying? And here I thought I almost had a plausible hypothesis."

"Such as?" inquired Angel, cocking her head to the side. Erik silently echoed her question.

"Um, that's stupid. But one of their first hits is "Summer mash". And the lyrics contain disturbingly accurate description of the bloody massacre. The wrath of forgotten pagan goddess fell on the impudent acolytes."

"I remember," hummed Angel, "and then she painted the ground around the pillar with their blood…er, during the solstice or something."

"The solstice was a few days ago," piped up Charles and shook his head, sadly. "True, there were four acolytes in the story. This is one of the reasons it had caught my attention from the very beginning. In any case, it looks far-fetched now. If someone was recreating the ballad, looking for a murderer is like looking for a needle in a haystack. All the fans and, gods, the "Mutants" have never been as popular as they appear to be now."

Salvatore nodded in agreement, and stared at Erik, smirking, as if she saw something amusing. Quite regrettable was the fact, that she was therefore lacking Charles' bashfulness and he made a mental remark to wean her away from such brash insolence. He didn't use to tolerate it in the past. Right, I know whose fault is it, connected two pieces of evidence Erik and turned to look at Charles. The other reacted by raising a questioning eyebrow at him, blue eyes reflecting pure, honest concern.

"We'll need to look at the place where they've discovered the body," decided Erik. "I want the autopsy report on my table as soon as possible, Salvatore."

"Okay. You two are going together?"

"Well, yes," confirmed Charles.

"Can I ask Charles something? In private?"

Charles shot Erik a bewildering, yet amused look.

"The parking lot. In ten minutes."

As irritated as Erik was he just shoved it aside, labeled it "for further monition" and shrugged, non-committal. There seemed to him something alarming in such easy retreat.

Pleasant cold was not to be found underground, in the large space of the parking lot. Though the temperature was quite a bit lower, it was still hot and stuffy, oftentimes in the afternoon the air was even hotter than the surface shade temperature. How is this possible? Erik blamed heat for finally getting to him and messing with his senses, because when he turned at the corner, eyes trained on his car under the poor cold light, he should have noticed her approach.

That woman circled him, keeping almost within arm's reach, but not quite. Being born a fighter himself Erik knew one and no amount of fake pretense was going to influence his judgment. Raven Darkholme, always unguessed, always wearing her hundreds of deceits and masks with absolutely twisted, however, respectable sense of pride, called to the surface vague feelings and distant prompting he tried to leave behind. Today, she had her hair in the ponytail, casual white dress evoked fresh impression of extreme youth and she smiled in a way that made Erik's left eyelid twitch as he suddenly became more than just simply bothered.

"Why so grumpy, detective?" she teased.

Erik narrowed eyes, fixing her with an icy look.

"Here I should ask why the hell you are here, but, frankly, I don't give a damn."

"As I thought. Predictable," she drawled, peering at him through strategically lowered eyelashes. "Let me make an educated guess. Is it your new partner?"

Perhaps it was wiser not to react at all.

"Heard it on the grapevine that he'd got himself in a little trouble. Something about a break-in. How unfortunate…melodramatic even, to be born into an obscenely rich household and yet to be subjected to such hardships at a tender age."

Ignore her.

Swiftly, Erik fished the keys out of the pocket, but she stepped in front of him, gracefully preventing him from opening the door.

"Erik," she said, keen blue eyes sparkling with barely restrained emotion. She was truly getting off on this, he could tell. "I'm just being sympathetic. That's all. After all, he doesn't know what he is getting into, or does he?"

"I suggest you leave," snapped Erik. Anger, his faithful ally, was quick to come to his aid.

"Or what? Will you kill me too?" she leaned in to whisper, warm breath tickling his cheek. "Like you killed Shaw? Remember, I was also there."

"You worked for him," stated Erik, flatly. "How dare you…"

"I didn't," Raven sniffed in exasperation. "It was a temporary assignment. I'm self-employed, after all. And you, look here, you've got a nerve, pretending that nothing happened."

"We're done for," he repeated the phrase he used on Charles, and made an effort over himself in order to continue. "I've paid my dues. You've got what you wanted. It ended long ago."

"If only," insisted she.

"Bad for you if you think so."

There was no getting through to her once she became like this. Fucking hell, why, dazedly thought Erik, when she just happened to initiate the kiss. No warning — never. And he had let her; the feel of her soft, sensual, but always insistent lips against his was doubtlessly recognizable. Odd, but the sensation made him calm. He pushed her away. At last, now she looks exactly like she should. Boiling mad and venomous.

"It's no good, making a fool of yourself, dear."

He knows her too and knows how to taunt her. Damn, we're both so pitifully twisted — came a passive, unwelcomed thought.

"Damn right, Lenhsherr. Likewise."

The way she licked her lips was enough of the indication, that she won't leave it like this. The smile abandoned her mouth and then Raven said, the manner unmistakably more serious.

"Today, I wanted to offer a fair warning. Someone was digging up the old shit. Elections are coming and you know what that means. Certain people are used to working via means of good, old blackmail. No imagination."

Erik was silent for a moment, contemplating her words.

"You want me to cover for you."

"Tit for tat."

You can go to hell he wanted to say, but instead he grumbled one word, which is going to backfire later. For certain.

"Deal."

.

.

.

But how strange it appears that the instinct should always lead Charles to his own ruin. His true talent is merely in choosing the wrong place and the wrong time. But, unfortunately for him, he figured it too late. When he turned at the corner and saw Erik and that reporter, Raven, Charles' first reaction was to dart back. Secondly, he froze, back plastered to the concrete, when realization hit him like a mean punch to the gut. The stomach-churning, sinking fervor was so intense, that for a moment he thought he was going to be sick. The sight of that scene… Goodness. He gulped, trying to get rid of the burning in his throat. It's all right. Fine. Erik and Raven had kissed, he saw it and overreacted. It happens.

Totally stunned, he aims to concentrate on breathing. He always does when something bad happens. But this time it seems that by an evil twist of fate all the oxygen in the vicinity has evaporated, leaving Charles in the silent, blank vacuum of nothingness, already a familiar place. He jerks his head, thumping it on the wall and by means of dull pain claims his breathing, his presence of mind back.

I can't stand here, with them only ten steps away, he decides. Still in a daze, he drags his not cooperating feet forward, then turns and then, in a dull fog, he approaches the car. Erik is already alone, he stands there frowning at him, and flings the door open, motioning for Charles to climb in.

"What's wrong?" he asks, brusquely. "You're as white as a sheet. Charles?"

"I don't know," honestly replies Charles. "I reckon… I've just realized something, um, you know how it happens. It'll pass. Things are not so bad."

"You're going to get a vacation after you deal with this case," grumbles Erik after a pause. "And I don't care…"

"Indeed, I agree."

Erik's mouth thinned, impatiently. Charles wondered if he was capable of taking more time to better contemplate his answers. The last thing he wanted to do is to raise a suspicion.

"Charles, from what I've been able to gather, you tend to think too much. Also, for some reason you avoid talking about what is bothering you directly. If I can't offer you any actual help, I can possibly help you in other ways." Erik is as sincere as he's ever been, and yet…

Charles knows now that it is the wrong emotion that has prompted the offer. Not the one he desperately craves for, not the one he needs so badly. It is not true that suffering purifies the soul, because right now he feels as if his whole being is being slowly encased in the dim, ominously dark coating. And never before was he so tempted to give in and just yield.

.

.

.


	4. Chapter 4

.

.

.

"Come on, Xavier! Big boss said to go and talk to that first witness again. Is it me or are we starting circle number two?"

Slightly uncomprehendingly, Charles glanced up at Logan from his computer screen and noticed that the man looked a bit bleary around the edges. Pushing chair away from the desk, he absentmindedly rubbed lightly at closed eyelids, gently massaging the tender area and saw quite a few sparks. Good god, it feels like his eyes are burning.

"Hold on a minute," interjected Charles when his brain has finally registered the words.

"What?"

"Why do you and I need to talk…"

"Because Lehnsherr said so."

"Right," sarcastically replied Charles, and looked at the man more intently, even calculatingly. "And on Monday I'm going to visit our witness first thing in the morning. With Angel… Aha, as far as I remember, you and Mr. Summers… happen to live on the same street. It's only a quarter to six, Logan, and if you need to go home earlier that badly, you should have…" here Charles stopped and had to bit on his lip. "But, you know what, let's go."

"You're learning," smirked Logan smugly.

"No, I don't. I also wish to leave earlier today, but nevertheless I'll work at home," frowned Charles and he didn't look at the doors of Erik's office, he absolutely didn't. Damn, whom exactly he is trying to fool.

"Sure, Xavier. Just hurry up," urged him Logan with strange good-humoured contempt.

"Angel," Charles called and she turned around in her chair, the phone receiver pressed firmly to her ear. "If boss asks, we've left to question Alex Summers one more time."

Angel made a face at him, simultaneously uttering something sounding like "yes, please continue" into the receiver.

"See you," said Charles and she waved them off, somewhat irritated.

Later on, Charles had the oddest feeling that getting stuck in the massive traffic jam was partly his fault. Logan shared this unvoiced opinion rather bluntly, swearing and muttering a lot of uncomplimentary things under his breath. At times like these Charles regretted that his hearing was that good. At least, the conditioning was working, as well as the radio. For the time being, Charles could not trust himself to mull over certain issues and did his best to get lost in the surroundings. He listened to the radio, observed Logan, looked out of the window and then repeated the same routine again. Evidently, he overestimated his subtlety hence Logan's face has clearly developed a curious expression of fury mixed with exasperation.

Charles has always been a little disconcerted by anger. Apart from that, he still felt guilty for that bruising on Logan's jaw, so he racked his brains for a while, trying to come up with a good conversation starter.

"I should have known that the traffic on this bridge is always terrible at the end of the working week," started Charles apologetically.

Logan only spared him a single severe look, but said nothing.

"By the way, where…"

"Not your fucking business," promptly cut him off Logan.

"As you say," mildly said Charles, already used to the appalling manners of his co-worker. "Judging by your new suit though… and I couldn't help but notice: is that the cologne I smell? Also, you've been checking you phone for new messages and checking the time as well." If looks could kill, Charles' body would be getting colder by now. And he didn't even mention the obvious signs of the recent visit to a barber.

"Xavier, a fair warning — shut the fuck up," growled Logan, but the way he fidgeted in his seat gave the game away.

"You've met someone at Moira's wedding and you're having a date," stated Charles, not sensibly at all.

Logan turned to stare at him. Thankfully, he kept his hands, or his fists for that matter, to himself.

"You never know when you have to shut up, do you?"

Charles thought for a second, then angled his head to see Logan properly.

"Perhaps, but I never meant to antagonize you," frankly, what was the man's problem.

"You know, now I feel sorry for Lehnsherr," trailed off Logan, suddenly amused.

A chill went down his spine and Charles' grip on the wheel tightened to the point when his fingers turned white. He kept his eyes trained on the wind screen. Oh, the cars have started to move. Finally. He reproached himself for not noticing sooner as he maneuvered the car to the right, thus pretending that he heard nothing. For now, it's easier like that.

By the time they got to the necessary street, Logan, never the one to hide his annoyance, was emitting the dark, impatient aura.

"If you are running late, I can give you a lift to your place and then I can go and talk to Mr. Summers myself. It's absolutely not a big deal. Erik.. um, I mean detective Lehnsherr just wants us to check for additional details, if any."

Logan scrutinized him with suspicion. The eagerness to leave has been quickly overwhelming his sense of duty. If it was in the game in the first place — that is, dryly thought Charles. The buzzing sound of the incoming message has clearly decided the outcome of the struggle.

"All right," muttered Logan. "Turn left at the corner, then. You are not going to do anything stupid, got it?"

"Your lack of faith in my abilities is fairly insulting," acidly replied Charles.

"The opposite," ridiculed him Logan. "I have an enormous faith in your ability to find trouble in the safest places. It's as huge as Lehnsherr's ego."

For a man who came across as a hybrid of an extremely unrefined lumberjack and a wrestler, Logan could surely come up with a mean verbal jab.

.

.

.

It didn't take Charles long to find the needed address after he parted with Logan. Only now he realized that stuffy air became a little more bearable and outside the sky was slowly losing its vibrant blueness, giving in to paler colors. When he exited the car, he stopped to look up at the building towering in front of his eyes at some distance. It was throwing a gigantic black shade on the nearby street, nearly swallowing it whole. The approaching night was firmly taking over the city, cloaking every corner in obscure shadows. For Charles it meant that he's already completely wasted a couple of hours he could have spent working. On the bright side, the light breeze brought by some miraculously generous summer whim freshened him up and even brought forth the distant recollections of one very happy summer at some seaside place he visited with his family when he was still a child.

The neighborhood was noticeably shabby. When Charles was coming closer to the entrance, walking along the grey concrete wall of some warehouse, he tried not to breathe in too deeply. Sharp ammonia scent nevertheless bit his nostrils and Charles sped up. He practically threw open the doors and stepped in, focusing on the elevator. His destination was on the twelfth floor.

To Charles, Alex Summers, despite his age, looked like a person who knows what despair and grief tastes like. After opening the doors, the first thing he has done was checking up the corridor and then Charles with weary eyes, too old for his youthful face.

Charles showed him a badge which was glared at with a frown.

"Detective Xavier. We've already met, and we agreed upon a meeting on the phone earlier," Charles waited for a moment. "Can we talk? I need to ask you a few questions?"

"Come in," said the young man instead of answering.

Charles slid stiffly into the apartment and went straight to the small kitchen. There, he was unsure what to do. The small table in the corner near the fridge was filled with various books, some of them looking like schoolbooks, and the single chair had some suspicious dark spots on the bottom.

His witness joined him soon, bringing a wooden stool.

Claiming the stool for himself, Charles settled down and was rather unexpectedly offered a glass of water, which he took, meanwhile studying the covers of some books which have picked his interest.

"So, you came to ask about that night again," meaningfully cleared his throat Alex, and Charles has hurried to avert his gaze to the side.

"Yes, Mr. Summers. Unfortunately, we need to bother you one more time," smiled Charles. He hoped it looked reassuring.

"It's Alex," grumbled young man in response. "And no, I can't remember any more details. Jeez, I was drunk, you know. Everyone else was. Someone pushed the doors open and ran out. Come to think of it, I'm not sure whether it was a man or a woman. It was so dark that, damn it, I actually tripped on the fucking log or whatever it was."

Putting aside the fact that Alex appeared to be not only drunk the first time Charles had the pleasure of interviewing him, he carefully asked:

"And what about your friends? Have they seen or heard anything suspicious. Every detail can be crucial."

"Oh, they did." Alex smirked and Charles' heartbeat skyrocketed at that. "I sort of got it that you won't leave me alone and asked around. Some people… I know."

"Do these people have names?"

"No names, detective, that's the deal."

"Call me Charles, please. And, what exactly have they heard?"

"That night one of my friends heard that something new, great stuff, has appeared, so to say. And one can get a sample if he knows the right people."

"That drug," murmured Charles, his hands clenched around the cold glass.

"He offered it to that… Kate, Kitty… what was her name." Charles nodded, listening attentively. "Told me that she swore she never tried it before and was fidgeting. Aha, really nervous. Also, she might have mentioned that they'd been waiting for guests and asked whether it was okay to share. Such a generous one," added Alex, rolling his eyes.

"And?…"

"And that's it," Alex crossed his arms defensively. "Look, I did some digging up for you. Now I want you to leave me alone."

Damn, Charles needed a name or address, at least something, anything. Because the stuff Logan had so graciously fed him at the wedding was of the different kind. Not that Charles wasn't glad. Were the drugs the same, he would have fared worse, that's for sure. That thread, so promising, had turned out faux.

If Logan were here, idly contemplated Charles, he would have tried to extort evidence using more violent methods. Not that Charles approved, of course. But, he was as certain of that as he was sure that his last name was Xavier and that his boss had an affair. He scowled at himself and Alex has clearly read it wrong.

It appeared that Charles' reflexes have saved him from being crushed by the doors, viciously banged right in his face. There must be something written for him up there — perhaps, something akin to eternal spite coming from all the doors in the world, decided he, exiting the building. It grew darker outside and the street lights were on. Charles had heard someone approaching and stepped back behind the truck, parked right at the entrance. Three men deliberately slid past him and through the doors. One looked startlingly familiar and Charles quietly groaned when he realized that the man might be the one from the list of the previously apprehended criminals, which he looked through yesterday, searching for clues. Not again. There are three of them and they are possibly armed, he calmly stated. And yet. Charles worried his lower lip between his teeth, nearly biting it in agitation. He has already wasted the entire evening. What would Erik do in his place? No, that's not the right question he should ask right now. But sudden anger directed mainly at his own indecisiveness has flared up that instant.

There are times, grimly thought Charles, walking through the doors and pressing the lift button, when you need to grow a backbone. He won't follow the thugs. After all, he's not foolishly suicidal or reckless, despite the opinion certain people might have. Instead, he will approach Alex Summers again and will demand answers this time. For sure. In such a manner, he'll save his investigation and will attempt to revive the pathetic remnants of the crumbled self-esteem. Quite a sound plan, mentally congratulated himself Charles.

Having approached the doors of Alex's apartment Charles stilled, hand slowly moving to his side to check the gun holster, attached to the belt. It's here this time. Thank goodness! He breathed out a sigh, swallowing a lump in his throat. Angry voices coming from behind the doors of the apartment could mean anything. But Charles, being aware of his special relationship with lady luck, could offer anyone wondering a fine, ninety percent plausible hypothesis. It seems, he is just in time to kill two birds with one stone.

A loud, brute roar shuttered his musings. Charles broke in cold sweat that very moment, although, his gun has appeared in his hand as if by magic — Erik's tough training kicking in. He went for stealthy approach; reasonably deciding that rushing in will do him no good. Charles carefully pushed the doors, not closed, and peeked in. The dark corridor was empty, and voices mixed with the sounds of ferocious scuffle were coming from the room straight ahead, presumably bedroom. His hand, holding the gun, was sickeningly sweaty and he resisted the strong urge to wipe it. Right, here we go. Scared, and nervous and definitely not ready to take down any criminals he still kicked open the doors and stepped in.

For an entire second, time itself had frozen and Charles' mind was busy taking in and analyzing the picture with almost unbelievable speed. Alex was currently leaning against the window, his face bloody and his posture betraying some boxing skills. One man was groaning on the floor, spluttering spit and blood on a worn, yellowish carpet. The second one was standing right in front of Alex, a heavy gun aimed at his chest. And the third one, by the doors, was caught reaching for something in his pocket. Miraculously, when his and Alex's eyes have met for a mere second, Charles experienced a rare moment of extreme clarity. Serenity he never knew before washed over him. It felt unbelievable. It felt, as if he could see right into the other's mind.

Alex moved first, using the distraction to his advantage, and Charles had heard the clatter of the falling gun, before the man standing in front of him tried to stick his knife into Charles' heart. Charles, considering and then dismissing the thought of firing a warning shot, dodged to the side. Gods, I never told them that I'm a police officer, appeared a stupid thought. Charles realized his mistake when it was a bit late and the blow to the side, because the man lying on the floor was apparently attacking him too, had forced him to drop the gun. Next, his arm, which he used to shield himself, was twisted behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulder like electricity, burning and shocking, and Charles did the only thing he could think of — he let his feet stagger back until his body collided with that of his attacker's and his head slammed into something hard. Damn, Charles was sure that the corresponding crunch signaled the broken nose. So he hoped. But the knife flashing before his eyes didn't give him the chance to increase the damage. He freed himself in time to move his body out of knife's range. Almost.

After that everything was more or less a blur. He remembered falling on the floor, his back collided with his own gun, but his grip on the man wielding the knife never wavered. They rolled on the floor until Charles managed to get an upper hand and kneed the man in the groin, then elbowed him in the ribs with all his might. Suddenly, the weight atop of him disappeared, as his associate, the one from police records and the one who previously had a gun, dragged his accomplice up.

"Get up, motherfuckers! And get out!"

In a blink of an eye, Charles was dazedly watching the backs of retreating men. He craned his neck and saw Alex, holding two guns, one of them unmistakably Charles', and he had them trained on the direction of the doors, where the men have just disappeared. Charles envied him for a moment. Alex definitely looked cool and intimidating, something which was an impossible feat for Charles.

"Detective, are you all right?" asked him Alex, lowering the guns with the sigh. "Fuck, my aim sucks so much with these things. Heh, it worked. Shit, it really worked!" He chuckled and in spite of the fact that there was a gash on his forehead and the blood was dripping on his white sleeveless T-shirt, his smile slowly transformed into a wide grin. It was the first positively open expression Charles has seen on him.

Charles slowly rolled from his back to the side, pushing himself up with the elbow. When he finally got to his knees, Alex has helped him to his feet.

"Man, you're bleeding!" harshly exclaimed Alex into his ear and led Charles to the small bed, firmly pushing him to sit.

"Shit, shit, shit!"

He is panicking on my behalf, and I'm sitting here doing nothing to help myself, realized Charles, stunned. Pains and aches, though numerous, were dull and he felt withdrawn; everything around him looked foggy. In addition, an odd, grave weight was pressing on his chest as if someone has placed a stone there. Alex had left before he fully comprehended what was happening, but he was back soon and was thrusting a glass in his unresponsive hand.

"Come on, detective, drink this. It'll make you get better."

"What's this?" croaked Charles, looking at the transparent liquid.

"Vodka. Good stuff, man," reassured him Alex.

Sighing heavily, Charles downed the glass in one go, prompting an apprehensive whistle from his new friend.

"Easy! Jeez, where did you learn to drink like that?"

"I'm not answering this question," informed him Charles, as the heat scorched his throat and his insides. He shrugged off his suit jacket with Alex's help and noticed that the left sleeve of his favorite blue shirt was drenched in bright-red blood.

"I will call the ambulance," offered Alex immediately, blanching a little. "Damn, there is too much blood."

"There's no need, stab wounds of this caliber always bleed like that," Charles was looking at his arm and could feel nothing but a bit of warmth trailing down his half-numb fingers. Must be good, for now. "I need to put pressure on it, and then," he hesitated, "I want you to drive me home. Please. The car is parked nearby. And I'll pay for the taxi back. All right?"

"Are you sure, man?" Alex sounded dubious. "You definitely need medical attention."

"And I'll get it in the morning."

"Hn, as you wish."

"Thank you, Alex," nodded Charles and winced when pain started catching up with him. And a lot of it. "If you have any painkillers, I'd like to take some before we go."

.

.

.

Insomnia was Erik's close friend for many years. Even before he joined the police force, it always followed him around no matter where he was, who he was with or how exhausted he actually was. A few years ago, when his mother was still alive, she had been talking non-stop about how her friend had the same problem and how therapy helped her to forget about a sleeping disorder for good. Erik dismissed it without a word. If he can help it, he won't be letting anyone in his head. Not now, not ever. And pills won't do too. He didn't want to enjoy the obligatory side-effects afterwards, thank you very much.

A cup of lukewarm coffee stood to his right. He has absolutely forgotten about it, lost in thought. Tonight, he used the better part of dark hours to sort out his books and the file-cabinet, putting aside papers he will need to give Raven. As promised.

A brown, worn leather bound notebook, and quite a pricy one, by the looks of it, was found in the gap between the writing desk and the wall. He should give it back to Charles, as soon as possible. Now it is lying before him, in the circle of orange light thrown by the lamp and it's tempting him like nothing else has done for a long time. Frowning, Erik takes it in his hands and feels the cover with his index finger. Yeah, here it is. So, Charles is one of the people, who like to stuff some inane papers under the cover and then forget about them. When he imagined Charles' positively scandalized expression he let the corners of his lips curl up. Soon his mood soured and Erik swiftly pulled at the end of the yellowish piece of paper. It was a photo. Charles looked like he was five or maybe four and he had already had that bright grin, chubby face shining with excitement, which Erik had a hard time getting used to. Though it dimmed a bit, it was unmistakably the same cheerful smile.

I don't want him to change. Not him. Erik remembered suddenly their last conversation and cringed. Way to go, Lehnsherr. Erik had always prided himself on his honesty — no to cajoling, sweetened lies and other nonsense. And Charles was good, genuinely good, well, despite some aspects when it came to getting physical. He would be a perfect candidate to take Erik's place, with someone trustworthy watching his back, of course.

Slowly, he put the photo back and checked the time. Six in the morning. One more hour and he will call Charles.

That yesterday's soup tasted acceptable, decided Erik, downing the second bowl in a row. He made himself a new cup of coffee and pushed open the curtains in the living room, letting in the bright golden light of the rising sun. Due to the lack of sleep his mind was slightly hazy, but he felt otherwise alright. Energetic even.

Charles was not so fast to wake up, though. Erik had to call three times before he picked up.

"What time is it?" grumbled a raspy voice in the receiver and Erik stifled a smile at the inane question.

"It's seven in the morning. Can you be in the precinct by nine?"

He heard a groan in response and frowned. It sounded not quite right.

"Charles," asked he sternly. "What has happened?"

"Nothing," he heard a wheeze, "Just stabbed…err, I mean, stubbed my toe. Worry not, I'm awake now. See you there."

"Alright," said Erik and ended the call.

Erik pushed the odd conversation to the back of his mind, and did some calculations. It seems that today is MacTaggert's shift. As far as Erik could say, enough time has passed and that woman must have received the results of the second stage drug test, she promised to provide. Her dislike regarding Erik was not hard to notice and it often resulted in the cases of miscommunication. Like now, for instance. Therefore, he will pay her a visit and take the report himself.

He never expected to see the sight which had appeared before his eyes as soon as he opened the laboratory doors. MacTaggert had the nerve to sigh and turn to the washing basin, pulling off her bloody latex gloves with a loud squelch. Charles stopped still in his tracks; he was clutching a black shirt, which he obviously intended to put on, while the other hand with an angry red wound was hanging limp. He was looking anywhere but at Erik.

Erik believed, Charles trembled a little. At least his lips certainly did. Erik himself was examining his injures — the laceration on the upper arm, evidently stitched up by MacTaggert, the large purple bruise on his side and numerous smaller ones covering the pale chest, looking vivid and painful.

Erik found out that he had not much to say. MacTaggert was the one to break the heavy, uneasy silence.

"Lehnsherr, he won't listen to me, this stubborn oaf, but I insist that he must visit a real doctor. And get a proper check-up."

"Moira…" weakly said Charles. "Please, don't, just don't make it worse."

"This is your health we're talking about, for god's sake!" the change his her expression was drastic. Erik, personally, has never thought that she could be anything but levelheaded. Annoying, yes, but levelheaded nevertheless. Damn these women, you never know.

"Why are you doing this to yourself, Charles?" exclaimed she. Then she turned and held Erik's stare. "I don't know how, and you may consider me even more stupid than you already do, Lehnsherr. But I know that this is your fault. So, it's up to you to deal with the consequences."

Charles got up after hearing that and scarcely rasped, speaking mainly to his shoes.

"Sorry, Moira. And, well, thank you for everything," with that he turned, and ignoring everyone, still clutching his shirt and jacket to his chest, went out of the doors.

Erik was silent.

"Get out, Lehnsherr," MacTaggert said dryly, shaking her head. "And, at least tell him to get dressed."

Erik, silently cursing his weird stupor, rushed out of the doors. Immediately upon seeing Charles he quickly called his name, wincing at the unexpected echo. And Charles turned around and slumped on the wall, his figure startlingly pale and ephemeral under the fluorescent lights.

"Charles," he said when he came at hand's distance. "Do you need help with your shirt?"

"No," was a soft response. "My arm's so numb, that I feel as if it's not here at all. Moira used some anesthetic, rather potent, let me assure you. But, um, could you hold the jacket for a moment?..."

Awkwardly, he managed to pull the shirt and jacket on, while Erik was standing beside him, averting his eyes.

"Hospital?" questioned him Erik and caught the blue eyes looking at him with tired acknowledgment.

"Y-yes," Charles licked his lips, and nodded.

"Charles, what else do I need to know?"

"I won't report it, Erik, and I, I might have breached the proper protocol."

"It happens," levelly said Erik. "And I know the hospital where they won't be asking unnecessary questions."

Astonishment in Charles' eyes was definitely worth it.

"Don't get used to it, though," warned him Erik for good measure. Then his hand moved on its own. It landed on Charles' back, and Erik gently pushed him closer, nearly burying his nose in dark strands of hair. He kept his eyes fixed on the wall, allowing this strange half-hug, because Charles has definitely needed something like that. And Erik could suffer a bit of bodily contact under certain circumstances.

When Charles finally leaned on him and relaxed, he also allowed himself a tiny satisfied smile.

.

.

.


	5. Chapter 5

.

.

.

It was Erik's idea to have lunch in a café not far from Charles' apartment. Charles appreciated the offer, and, knowing Erik, he was perfectly aware of the not so hidden motive. Yesterday in the hospital they had assured him that everything will heal in a fortnight if he withholds from putting strain on his arm and takes prescribed medicine. Not bad, wistfully pondered Charles, picking at a seafood salad — not his customary choice, but a waiter recommended it, and Charles was feeling adventurous today. Besides, the fact itself that Erik has asked him out, whatever the reason, and on Sunday, when they both had a day off, still warmed his stupid heart immensely.

Charles' attention shifted as Erik put down his fork and leaned back in the chair. A touch melancholic and reserved, Erik was looking out of the window, eyebrows lowered over grey eyes, while his long fingers were absent-mindedly toying with a butter knife. Rebellious flickers of light, reflected by the shiny steel, blinded Charles for a second.

"Sorry," said Erik, much to his surprise, and let go of the knife.

"Never mind," smiled Charles, mentally wondering what was going on. For all he knew, well, has he ever heard an apology from Erik? Ah, yes, that happened once. Surely, the second time needs to be celebrated.

"You should eat more," casually remarked Erik then, and Charles has nearly choked on the mouthful of shrimps, carefully separated from the rest of the salad.

"No," he got out after Erik pushed a glass of water in his direction and shook his head to emphasize the point, "I'm fine, thanks."

But Erik hadn't invited him here to discuss his eating habits, right? Because it makes Charles suffer, it makes him believe that Erik cares… and Charles already knows that it's not going to lead anywhere.

Maybe, Charles was hastily reading the whole situation wrong, not that it hadn't happened before. But, okay, Erik will demand the whole story eventually, so he'd better get straight to the point now. Without missing a bit, Charles took a deep breath and never one to mince his words, told Erik everything from the very beginning. Starting from the moment Logan had left to why and when was Alex driving him home. His decision to interfere with the fight, though incompetent and rush in his own eyes was suddenly unveiled in a different, more wholesome light.

"When faithful strive to confess…" murmured Erik in strange monotone, the corner of thin mouth twitching a bit.

"Excuse me?" Charles couldn't believe his ears. Who was this man and what has he done with his Erik?

"I absolve you from your sins," told him Erik, this time he didn't even try to hide his dry amusement. "Amen. Now, what about a dessert?"

Such was Charles' confusion that he dropped a fork on his lap. After he shifted, trying to pick it up, it clattered to the floor with melodic noise. And then he was laughing, for what seemed like the first time in ages. In passing, he registered bewildered, scandalized looks directed at him, but couldn't stop. Wouldn't. Laughter covered him like an ocean wave; its onslaught reverberated in his very bones, totally unrestrained. For an instant Charles did forget all his foolish worries and just laughed, wiping away the tears, running down his cheeks. Yes, he was indeed slightly hysterical, but excruciating rapture pierced his very being at the time and he even had to press the hand to his mouth, not to stifle the laughter, though that'd be appropriate, but to keep this marvelous feeling in longer.

"Sorry, Erik," he apologized with a helpless chuckle, as the disapproving murmurs were reaching his ears, a painful reminder of the improper outburst. "But, wait! This is your fault, my friend."

Judging by the way Erik's eyes twinkled with the same feeling, he shared the emotion as well, only in Erik's detached fashion, so to say.

"Let's go to my place," insisted Charles, calming down.

When they paid the bill and exited the café, the sky grew dark. The appearance of the ominous clouds and the sharp, stingy wind cheered Charles up, for he's been waiting for the rain since the start of the heatwave and here was the answer to his prayers. Less than a quarter was left to his apartment when the sky opened, literally, and the rain fell. They've been drenched that instant. Running under rain was pointless, but it was something which left a pleasant aftertaste of forgotten childhood joys and he took a rare chance to hold Erik's hand in his, claiming that it would be faster that way and taking a refuge in lying and pretending again. But nothing could diminish the thrill of dashing down the narrow passage between an embassy and some beautiful but abandoned temple, hand in hand with his precious someone, under the summer rain.

Charles rushed through the doors first and pulled Erik in, nearly tripping them both in the process. When they slid into an elevator together, and Charles turned to look at his friend, he could bet that he started drooling. How can one take his eyes off the sight of Erik in a wet polo shirt, plastered to lean, muscular body, enhancing all the right places? Gods, and he, Charles discretely pushed back wet hair, dripping water into his eyes, and took a brief look at his reflection, kindly provided by the sleek elevator wall. Of course, the attempt to groom only enhanced the impression of something extra pale and pathetic, and soaking wet.

By the time they stepped into the flat, greeted by the cat, Charles had a plan. Make Erik stay longer. Shouldn't be hard.

"Do you want to take a shower… or I can fetch you a towel, or something?" politely offered Charles.

"Towel would be okay," Erik said, cringing a little when he looked down at his shoes.

Charles hurried to the bathroom, opening the doors and grabbing the biggest fluffy towel he owned. From the corner of his eye, he caught a glint from under the sink and bent to look at what appeared to be a silver cufflink. Sighing, he had to drop to his knees, his reach not enough.

What was it doing here? Charles wasn't the tidiest person in the world, but he'd surely scrubbed the place clean today in the morning before Erik called. He found nothing. Peering closer at the initials he let out an amused huff. Of course, the curving CX were a dead giveaway.

Now he remembers that he thought he'd lost them a couple of months ago. Charles had blamed a bar accident and an extremely attractive blonde. He still hadn't realized then how hooked up and screwed up he already was, that's why he made a solid effort to start going out at last and resume a proper life, a man his age is expected to have. After that very case and his predicament, he felt that he could snap if remained alone any longer. As a result of a sufficient number of attempts on his part, Charles soon understood that there might be something wrong with him. Initially. And when Moira pointed out in one of the conversations that he has become annoyingly flirty and she meant flirty not in a good way, Charles took it as a sign to quit um, let's say… looking around, and began searching within himself. The result of the proverbial spiritual discovery turned his world upside down.

"Charles, what are you doing on the floor?" came a deep voice from above and Charles nearly jumped out of his skin. His head collided with the underside of the sink and Charles saw stars. Damn, if where was a state he didn't want Erik to see Charles in, it was like this — clothes pitifully soaked, on his hands and knees on the bathroom floor, now nursing an aching head, to add injury to insult.

Cautious now, Charles maneuvered his body into a more respectable crouch and carefully stood up, wincing.

Erik's features softened when he closed his eyes in mock exasperation and leaned on the door, giving Charles time to make himself decent.

"You can say I was having a spontaneous stroll down the Memory Lane," grinned Charles coyly, throwing a towel at Erik.

Slightly narrowing eyes at him, Erik took the towel and said.

"Those cufflinks must mean a lot then. A present?"

"No, not a gift. I just couldn't remember seeing it on the floor before. I wonder where I'll find the other one. Though I do clean it in here, you know. Actually, I hadn't seen them for about five months."

Erik grew solemn and alert. Something wolfish passed over his face.

"Erik, goodness, you don't think that someone has broken in again, do you? And what for? To give me my cufflinks back? Oh no, don't give me that look," Charles was getting tired of this.

"Charles, you know that it's better to be safe than sorry," firmly stated Erik. "I don't give a damn about many things, but I do care…"

"Let's have a drink," quickly interrupted Charles and slid past Erik.

In the kitchen, he waited for a bit, staring past the single red cup on the counter at nothing in particular, until the cat rubbed her head up against his leg. Then Charles moved to take out whisky, ice and two glasses. Finally, they got more or less dry and Charles changed into his comfortable domestic clothes, bullying Erik into putting on a nondescript grey jumpsuit, obviously not Charles' size, which someone, probably Hank, has given him for his birthday.

Next hour was spent playing chess, in a pleasant company of good whisky and the purring mistress of the house, booking herself the place next to Erik on a comfortable couch. Charles occupied an armchair opposite the couch and in this fashion the three of them had enjoyed a full package the civilization could offer, while rain and wind were battling outside.

When Charles went to get more ice and came back, he found his two charges sleeping peacefully on the couch. Erik's head was thrown back and his whole body seemingly melted where he sat. Quickly, Charles retrieved the comforter and carefully tucked him in. In doing so, he had to lean closer, their faces inches apart, and his traitorous hand trembled. So badly he wanted to be able to reach out and touch: to trace the strong jawline with his fingertips, to smother the wrinkles, born from constant frowning, to map all sharp angles and lines of the beloved face with his lips.

I will live through this — he told himself, falling onto his bed and fighting the urge to curl up like a small kid and sob to his heart's content. He wasn't done repeating this mantra until the compassionately steady beat of raindrops against the window lulled him to sleep.

.

.

.

"Stop trying to sneak up on me," warned Erik, after he caught the sight of the approaching figure — image perfectly reflected by the glass. Damn it, in the parking lot again and here he hoped to meet her where nobody else could see them.

Charles was closing the doors on the other side, and when he looked up past Erik's shoulder and saw Raven his expression didn't change much, except that he tried to lower his eyes a little too fast, and the twist of his usually smiling mouth turned a touch bitter, but that might have been only the trick of light. Anyway, Erik did try to instill more healthy vigilance into his younger and, let's face it, too unsuspicious for this particular job partner. Good to know that Erik has succeeded in something, at least.

"Gentlemen, what a pleasant coincidence," cheerfully said Raven, coming closer and Erik's watchful mind obediently supplied that something was off with her manner.

Politely, Charles offered a few words in return, growing stiff.

"Charles, tell everyone that I want them present for the briefing in half an hour," told him Erik. Wearing a frown he watched him nod, swallow the dismissal and then leave without delay. In the meantime, Raven put on her half-entertained, half-surprised expression, which, for some reason, set Erik off like nothing else.

She slid into the passenger seat and Erik, despite his internal resolution not to share any enclosed spaces with the woman again, followed suit. Partially, because he took a proper look at her and Raven didn't look like she was having such a nice life lately. Brashness lacked malice, it was half-hearted at best and Erik was used to that malevolence. It was familiar. That he could deal with. Because now, under all that carefully maintained image of the pretty tough character he saw a glimpse of something else.

"Is the car clean?" asked Raven. A sinuous stretch came as a second nature, guessed Erik, as she made a show of making herself comfortable.

"Definitely."

"You sure no one is listening to you or tailing you?"

"Yes, before you showed up at my workplace again, I really was," lifted an eyebrow Erik, otherwise keeping his expression blank.

"Hm, I suppose you'd have noticed," hummed she, distractedly.

Then he did notice, albeit something else. The constellation of bruises on her wrist, peeking out from underneath long-sleeved shirt. The denim shirt itself was a tad different from that usual less-covered-is-better style.

"Had a bit of a scuffle," she followed his gaze.

"I hope, you hid the bodies fairly well," flatly said Erik.

"Unfortunately, the fuckers were gone in a blink of an eye," she scowled, tilting her head to stare at Erik dead-on. "I presume, they are being paid enough to compensate for the damage. Broken bones don't heal that fast."

The oddest thing was that she absolutely wasn't joking or exaggerating. Having seen Raven in action first-hand, he knew that she was not your typical damsel in distress.

"They will try something else next time," pointed out Erik, mentally vowing to be extra careful himself.

"Why do you care, Lehnsherr," Raven saw the opening as she grinned in anticipation. "Watch out yourself. And don't forget about your cherub. If I were trying to get to a bastard like you, I wouldn't strike head on."

"Shut up," he gritted out, and gone was the somber mood. Anger surged suddenly through him like a fever.

"Fine, fine. This is just a mere speculation."

"There are no such things as speculations with you. If you know something, spill right now."

"Well, dear Harold's finally got his fat, ugly fingers on Shaw's archive. As outdated as the info is, it contains a plenty of blackmail material," her expression was that of pure envy, "the things one can accomplish using that. Hn, where was I?"

"So, he knows I was involved," summarized Erik, cursing the bad timing.

"This city is one huge snake pit. Everyone is involved that way or another," wisely remarked Raven.

Deciding to cut straight to the chase, Erik took the briefcase from the backseat and handed it to Raven. She took it, immediately opened and started looking through contents, humming under her breath. No _thank you_. She obviously still thinks that Erik owes her.

"This might not be enough," said she, caressing dark leather.

"I'm sure you'll figure something out."

"And after everything that has been between us…"

One more phrase like that, and they will never find the body, decided Erik.

"Okay, that's all for today, I get it. I'll bring the briefcase back, of course."

"Just keep it. I insist."

"Always so chivalrous," he could practically hear the eye roll. "Keep my advice in mind, however. In fact, I like this one, and we don't want any casualties, do we?"

"I don't know why you are telling me this. Now leave before I change my mind," the control over his voice was easier than the control over inner turmoil where worry, anxiety and cold, gripping fear threatened to overwhelm him.

"I really worry, you jerk. You've worked hard to leave all that shit behind, but you carry the burden, which is unfortunately too big. Sooner or later you will snap and that department of yours will have another mass murderer to catch."

Every word was beginning to hit home. His rage wailed like a caged beast and Erik was doing his best to keep himself in check.

"That's exactly what I've been talking about," said Raven, getting out and fetching the briefcase. "Thank you, by the way."

.

.

.

Showing up and looking like he's just had a grim fight to the death, Erik's managed to envenom the whole room in one go. Charles suspected that it was in a way connected to his natural charisma, which made people follow Erik, whenever they genuinely liked him and his ideas or not. For some reason, all the eyes were now drawn to Charles in mute request to do something about it. Great, just what he needs.

He came to Erik's door, knocked and was welcomed in with a very promising growl.

"I beg your pardon," muttered Charles, stepping in and hesitating whether leaving the door open would be a more strategically sound option or not.

Erik has made that decision instead of him.

"Close the door, Charles."

Charles did. For a moment he stood there staring at Erik, who was obviously going through a very unpleasant mood shift. As a friend, he should offer his help, but as a colleague he should, maybe, pretend that everything's fine and go on, but as someone who cares about Erik a lot, he should also help. It's decided, then.

"Shall I tell the rest of the team that we rescheduled the briefing? And, are you quite alright, Erik?"

"Answering the first question — no, we'll start in a minute. And about the second one, how have you put it recently — I've just realized something, right?" inquired Erik, and Charles flinched, as if slapped. Those memories opened the raw wound which hasn't had time to heal yet.

"I'm being unfair to you," surprised him Erik with his next words. Then he shook his head in disbelief. "But, for some reason, you put up with all this shit."

"You make me look like a saint, my friend. Which I am certainly not."

Charles, inspired by the sudden boost of courage, came closer and patted Erik on the shoulder.

"I'd like to say that whatever bothers you is nothing and in the end everything will work out," sadly smiled Charles. "And even though I know how pathetically unrealistic it sounds to you, I'm going to say it. So, bear with it."

"With pleasure," seriously replied Erik, meeting his eyes.

In the end, Charles did almost all the talking on his own. Not that he objected. These briefings always help him to get a new perspective.

"Mr. Pirson," Angel nodded to the board where, among the gruesome pictures from the trailer, was a photo of the manager, "apparently had got an affair. That's why he was there that morning, and it appears, his lover is married. Her husband was on the business trip: I've already confirmed it by interviewing his co-workers and other staff from the conference."

"Maybe, it really was an accident," said Hank, looking at Erik with weary eyes. "The cause of death is a severe head injury therefore we assume that he got hit by the car, hence the broken hip and ribs, fell and hit the guardrail. After having consulted the experts, I, I think this is what had happened."

"Any luck with the car?" asked Erik then, stepping closer to their "display board". Charles has been looking at it for so long, that he feared he'll have its permanent imprint in his mind forever.

"No, sir," this time Charles decided to take on the responsibility for telling bad news himself, noting how Angel has visibly relaxed after his words. "But we're working on it."

"I can see that you're ready to proclaim it unsolved and be done with it," sharply commented Erik, ever so tactful, but, for his credit, he was absolutely right. Not only Charles, but all the rest of them felt that they were spanking a dead horse, trying to find the culprit among the millions of vehicles in the city. Despite the disturbing fact, that almost every corner nowadays was seeded with cameras, there were some blind spots and their victim was found dead in one of those.

"That drug dealer who had spoken to the victim before the murder," Erik turned around to look at Charles, "Have you found him yet?"

"Well," with Alex's help Charles and Logan almost did, but, he was as evasive as a sensible drug dealer ought to be. "Not yet."

"We will, Lehnsherr," intruded Logan. "Give us more time."

"Yesterday, we've spent the whole day chasing him in places I never knew existed," added Charles and tentatively said. "Sometimes I wonder, what if we could pass a message that we won't charge him anything if he just shows up and tells about that night."

Rearranging his tie, which, it should be noted, was tight to the point of choking, Erik sighed, looking unimpressed. Being the deliberate, uncompromising type, his boss never made concessions. But, perhaps, it was the time to start.

"Has it crossed your mind that he can be the murderer himself?" said Erik with sardonic bitterness. "It's crucial to catch him for now. Also, looking for car is now McCoy's responsibility. I want everyone else on this mass murder."

Hank made a single helpless gesture. Charles tried to give him a sympathetic look, but he wouldn't meet anyone's eyes.

"Dismissed," announced Erik.

.

.

.

Once, it was in the old, windy harbor, just on the sandy beach itself, where the ruthless waves had washed the remnants of Shaw's boat, Erik came to the realization that he'd reached the point of no return. An utterly depraved nature of the man he got rid of would never be debated, but the desolation he felt after everything had finally ended was another thing, entirely different. Erik despised the psychological bullshit they desperately tried to implement in every police training these days. Nevertheless, it was pretty horrible to behold the truth. So, obviously potent hatred and rage indeed pushed him to the edge of the proverbial abyss.

Sadly, the beach was not deserted. Bloody summer, reflected Erik, pushing up the sleeves of his formal shirt, but at least it became a tad colder.

He walked up the cliff quickly, ignoring all the stares almost naked people were giving a man in the crisp white shirt and black slacks. The meeting in the place like this was not ridiculous for one reason — he will surely stand out, and that's what he's aiming at. You never know what the likes of her can do.

Emma was renting one of the small beach cottages for the duration of summer, and when Erik called, she invited him to come. Unexpected. He purposefully chose the longer way, leaving the car on the pier and walking on foot. Partly, because old habits die hard, and you never fall into comfortable routine of choosing the obvious routs, and on the other hand, he wanted to think and hoped that the change of scenery might help.

He was greeted before he even stepped on the white porch, where the delicate, tiny table for two has been laid in Emma's immaculate style, meaning that you were afraid to touch it, so spotless and perfect the display seemed. Never mention actual eating.

"I should have brought something," he said, and Emma stopped for a moment and then resumed her pot stirring ritual.

"I don't mind," her smile put some prominent actresses to shame. "Sit and have tea with me."

"I came to talk to you," Erik sat, marveling at Emma's grotesque antics.

It's not that they have ever been especially friendly or… slept together — offered a sly, inner voice and he subtly shook his head to chase the image of Raven away.

"How is work?" asked Emma, pouring him some green tea, which Erik absolutely loathed. It was a bit presumptuous to assume that she has mysteriously found out this fact somehow and made it on purpose, wasn't it?

"As usual. A lot of dead bodies and even more irritating living bodies."

"Sugar, you haven't changed a bit," she laughed and he scowled. These endearments were rather degrading and coming from Emma they sounded more like a not so subtle mockery.

"I've got a visitor a few days ago," drawled she, sipping her tea. "Of course, I kept my mouth shut. One hoped that after Sebastian's demise everything would get buried as well. I have no idea why now, but, Erik, say, do you remember Mr. Leland?"

"Raven might have mentioned a name today in the morning."

"He was a nobody, one of Sebastian's minions, too insignificant to crawl out of his shadow. It seems that after all these years, he's decided to take Sebastian's place and we're witnessing the rise of the Hellfire, albeit recreated under Harold Leland."

Erik took a sip of his tea and gulped it down quickly. It was still water after all; if you don't keep it in your mouth for too long you can't feel the appalling herbal taste.

"He acts like he's the main character in that Scorsese movie," grumbled Erik, prompting another laugh.

"You're so funny, officer," purred Emma, "and listen to the opinion of a physician. The man is on the verge of a heart failure. All the symptoms are as clear as day. Today, I took a day off and went to look at him in court. Must admit that he's quite intelligent, but, as I've mentioned previously, he doesn't look alright."

"I appreciate it," Erik thought he understood the message.

"You should," huffed Emma, and went on, quietly, "Unfortunately, no amount of money can save failing body from imminent end. Maybe, that's why he tries so hard, who knows."

Behind Emma's back and stretching entirely across the horizon was the line of scarlet light, left by the sun. The almost transparent pale moon was hanging in the sky, briefly reflected by the sea waters. He inhaled fresh, salty air and realized that he genuinely likes it here. Probably, he should go out more, and, maybe, he'll show this place to Charles, seeing as he never grew up in this city.

His idle musings were interrupted by the phone call.

Erik fished the phone out of his pocket and raised his eyebrow at the caller's ID. Emma silently stood up and went back to the cottage, leaving him alone.

"Erik, awfully sorry to bother. Do you have a minute?" asked Charles, his accent becoming more evident meant that he was anxious.

"Yes. What's wrong?"

Charles laughed, uncomfortably.

"I'm feeling really stupid right now. But to be on the safe side and all, I think someone was in my apartment again. Please, don't make a fuss…"

"Charles, it's not about making a fuss," gritted out Erik, walking down the stairs.

"And also I though you should know, that I'm going to pay a visit to my brother."

"What?"

"We've got issues to discuss," calmly said Charles. "And I can't run away from confrontation forever, my friend. See you at work."

"Wait, Charles," managed Erik before the line went dead.

Goddamn, goddamn Charles, and his damn abusive family, and his wellbeing, which has suddenly become one of the biggest concerns in Erik's life.

.

.

.


	6. Chapter 6

.

.

.

Even the twinkling, barely discernible stars were laughing at him. Erik glowered up at the black sky, illuminated by the glow of city lights, keenly feeling like he was waiting and waiting for a train on the deserted railway station. And waiting in vain.

The time itself seemed liquid; it drifted about him like a dark fog, messing with him in all possible ways. Damn, but this is so dumb.

No, damn Charles for not picking up the phone.

With great difficulty he forced the desire to follow Charles, or more absurd one — to go and wait for him near his apartment, out of his head. Instead, he had to leave his house, unable to stare at walls anymore and now was exercising in calming his mind outside. However, it didn't work as desired. Okay, come to think of it, Erik has never noticed that he owned the yard this big. Thankfully, he paid the boy who lived nearby to take care of the lawn. That boy, whatever his name was, would probably grow into a full-fledged smuggler one of these days as the gut feeling was telling Erik. Anyhow, Erik is sort of investing in a future informant in case he actually takes up this career path.

The attempt to distract himself with something mundane failed. Fucking hell. He gave in and went back to reasoning. It's pointless to go to Charles' place, because Erik truly has no idea whether Charles plans to come back home or not. If someone had broken in again, he probably doesn't. Naturally, a couple of hours ago, Erik checked the hotel where Cain was seen lately and was respectfully informed that Mr. Marko had moved out two days ago.

Sunrise came almost suddenly, whilst Erik was slumbering on the sofa, drained and more than just simply exhausted. Methodically, he went through his morning routine in order to get ready to work.

The sound of the ringing doorbell was akin to the jolt of thunder in winter. Both sudden and invigorating.

Then he threw the door open there stood Charles, with guilty, sullen look upon his face. His yesterday's suit was a touch rumpled, and he looked like he hadn't gotten enough sleep at night — hence the dark rings under his eyes and a hint of unhealthy pallor. He seemed fine otherwise. That's why the wave of relief was brief as soon as the sight of him reminded Erik that he was incredibly frustrated for the reason.

So he glared at his partner, jaw tensed.

"Good morning, Erik. I… sincerely apologize," stammered out Charles, shuffling on the spot. Evidently, maintaining the smooth tone has taken quite a toll on him.

Erik had had enough of defiance for today, even though the day has technically just begun. Thus, he avoided reacting at all. But the foul part of it is that not reacting will unlikely make the feeling of intense discomfort simply vanish into thin air. Recently, he gives in to his anger too often. Damn it! Erik recalled the last argument with Charles and the logical conclusion occurred pretty fast. He refused to get robbed of self-control anymore. Sighing inwardly, he made a titanic effort to bury the irritation along with the rising fury.

"All right," Erik simply retorted after a pause. "You'll tell me everything on the way to work, I hope. No postponing this time."

"Roger, sir. Thank you," posture straightened like that of the soldier under review plus a tentative smile on tired face looked well on Charles.

"I'm going to wait in the car," he added and was off.

The words were ordinary, yet they helped to dissolve the brewing tension. There was this thing that he liked about Charles.

Erik joined his partner soon. Charles only spared him a quick reflective look before he started the car.

"Erik, please tell me… No, that won't do," while the beginning of the weird monologue caught Erik unguarded, Charles went on. "Okay, so you remember that time when I found my cufflinks, one of them, on the bathroom floor. Also, you know that I spend most of time at work and I come back home mainly to fall asleep. I never paid proper attention to it before, this sort of thing, it seems crazy."

"Charles, you're rambling."

"I am? Goodness," and he blushed a little. "Um, sorry. I think that my explanation will bore you to death. It is full of intangibles… In any case, first of all I started to get an odd uncomfortable feeling around the place since winter. Those days I was distracted though."

Thoughtfully, Erik nodded. He deduced that Charles was dating someone at the time, because he would arrive a hint disheveled in the mornings, and not the right kind of disheveled, with eyes brighter than normal, not to mention the abundance of calls and private messages he received. Erik was secretly pleased when it ended.

"I started to notice these details, trifles really, let me think, yeah, only four weeks ago."

"Define trifles."

"Nothing big. But it was nagging at my mind, made me seriously doubt my memory. And sanity as well. The way I put the fresh magazine on the coffee table and later I find it stacked with the rest of them in the box behind the couch. Sometimes the china would be placed in the different order or the drapes would be arranged differently. I remember I'd heard tales about brounie in childhood…"

"Excuse me?"

"Brounie is a ghost creature, which aids in tasks around the house. Yes, I know that this is crazy, Erik."

"Screw the brounie, Charles. Go on."

"Erik, there's no need to swear at mythological, er, sorry, you're right. Well, yesterday, I came home to find out that my notebook was missing. And I swear I'd left it on my bedside drawer. That was the last straw actually, and hence I was far from being composed, I decided to go to Cain. As ridiculous as the plot to drive me crazy via messing with my magazines and other stuff sounds now, I, sort of, thought of that night when we came from Moira's wedding first. Then I called you just in case, you know," Charles frowned, eyes trained on the road.

"How did you find him?" Erik was curious.

"I might know his usual preferred lairs better than anybody else. As well as his, so to say, hm, business partners. Can't say that getting the information by bribing them was a piece of cake, it certainly is wallet-draining, but it works."

By clearing his throat he hinted Charles that going into detailed description concerning his dealings with informants wouldn't be necessary.

"Turns out, it wasn't Cain that time," grimly summarized Charles, remorseful. "I jumped to the most obvious conclusion and miscalculated."

"So did I," bit out Erik.

"No, it was evident. A procedural mistake if you wish to call it that. In any case, we've talked with Cain for almost ten minutes without any casualties. I still can't believe it. At least, it was refreshing to speak my mind with such frankness."

"What are you going to do?" Erik asked the main question which has troubled him since the beginning of the conversation.

"Right now, I honestly don't know. The entire pattern worries me a lot. Therefore I suppose, the person responsible for this might suffer from some kind of psychosis. Anankastic personality disorder, maybe disinhibition, not sure, and he or she knows me well. Of course, no matter who they are, they need professional help, I believe… Good god, I should have slept a few more hours," muttered Charles with detachment.

"I'll instruct Salvatore and Cassidy to take up this stalker case for the time being. Until I find someone better," his tone brook no further argument so Charles turned to stare at him with anxious expression and wide, unsettled eyes. It was plain obvious now, that the traces of recent shock had disturbed his composure.

"I reckon, that it's for the best," agreed Charles, in mild voice, after a moment of contemplation.

"Where are you staying?"

"A hotel near the station. It's convenient, close to the precinct. Unfortunately, I had to leave the cat with Jason."

"There's something suspicious about that guy," said Erik.

"Everyone becomes suspicious when you think about it," retorted Charles, defensively.

"That's right," nodded Erik with approval and made Charles visibly recoil in response.

.

.

.

Rules regarding parking on suburban streets need to be reconsidered. Charles scarcely avoided running into an elderly beggar, lurking among the cars, and started to apologize when he was roughly pushed aside. After having looked up, Charles noticed that Angel was running farther ahead than anticipated. Hopefully, she hasn't lost the sight of the guy yet. No time to hesitate then. He slid into the narrow passage between two shops, where Angel's ponytail has been seen a couple of seconds ago. Luckily for her, she was not the one whom the man had attempted to stab with a pocket knife. There's some kind of conspiracy going on, with all the people attacking him with knifes these days. So it happened that Charles did hit his bruised side while dodging and now the soreness he was feeling there before transformed into sharp stabbing pain.

Angel's angry scream made him sprint faster, ignoring the occasional sleazy rubbish under his feet. After he ran into the dirty backyard he breathed out a sigh of relief. Angel was already handcuffing the drug dealer, whilst pressing him face-first into the brick wall. By the looks of it, she had previously smashed the said face on the wall one or two times.

"Here you are," she hissed, pulling him from the wall by the handcuffs. "Mr. Flash is not going to run anywhere anymore. What a pity!"

Charles hunched a bit, panting from exhaustion, while he fought the temptation to lean on the wall too.

"You okay?" she caught his eye.

Wincing, he straightened and nodded, actually embarrassed with himself. He managed to disarm the suspect and yet went down from the simple kick to the ribs.

"I'm okay. Let's get him in the car. Goodness, how far did we run?"

"It has taken about ten minutes," Angel emphasized her words by pushing her catch in the back, towards the passage. "And this time we're lucky, because I know this district more or less. We used to live there. The car's not that far, this moron was running in circles."

"It seems, we're lucky indeed," said Charles. Both of them ignored the loud stream of profanity which escaped their prisoner.

When they finally seated him in the car, the fight left him and he slumped in on himself, muttering something so quietly that Charles didn't get a word.

In the precinct Angel insisted that he go and clean his jacket if possible. Thus, Charles has found himself in the men's room, attempting to wipe the stains of something green and brownish, imprinted into the light-grey fabric with admirable persistence. He can't make it presentable — he figures after a few more earnest efforts. He's lucky that the hotel he stays in probably has dry cleaners, he muses dejectedly. That's how he arrives at an issue again. He's got a stalker. Oh, goodness… So, that's how it feels. Charles comes to the stop then; his sensations are hard to comprehend.

Carefully, he shakes off the partly wet jacket and after that folds it. For the second, he avoids looking in the mirror, not very eager to see the palpable haunted look his reflection gives him. Around people he maintains a cautiously built front, but presently, when he's alone, it's slipping.

What is so special about him? Does he somehow attract psychopaths without even realizing it? The idea would have been ridiculous if it hadn't been so alarming.

It appears, Erik was looking for him while he was torturing his jacket.

"We've got to go," announces Erik as soon as Charles enters his office. "The body of a victim found dead this afternoon. Cassidy said that this is Levine, in the cold flesh, so to say."

"That lawyer, who repeatedly got in the argument with the mayor, right?" Bullocks, but this is going to be extra problematic.

"Sure, who else?" Erik's taunt was strangely devoid of animation.

"How did he die?"

"A headshot," said Erik. "Is it too hot in here?"

"Sorry?" didn't understand Charles at first. "Oh, yeah, the jacket got closely encountered with the dirt. I don't have a spare one, well…"

"What happened?" Erik was looking at him attentively, waiting for an answer.

"Nothing worth mentioning. We caught that uncatchable drug dealer and Logan and Angel are questioning him now, but you already know this," replied Charles casually.

Erik only shook his head and snorted.

Charles noticed it while driving from the crime scene — an abandoned warehouse near the pier — the way Erik's face was darkening with every passing minute, as his eyes were turning icy and piercing, really dangerous. The idea came to Charles that it was somehow connected with his partner's mysterious conversations with the unknown someone Charles had accidentally picked up, and his close connection to Raven. Here his mood sank dramatically, as his thought led him in one specific direction. But what if it was Raven all the time? The way they speak to each other indicates more than just an extremely uncanny affair. They act around each other as if they've been acquainted for a long time. Being sometimes visited by the bouts of serendipity, Charles recognized the feeling. He knew why not and how and yet he knew.

In any case, Erik is entitled to his own secrets as well as everyone else. Asking him to share will lead Charles nowhere. However, his heart ached, almost too much. All he wanted was to wipe that grim look from Erik's face and erase dark thoughts from his mind. It was not about wishing something for himself anymore, realized he with warm contentment.

Erik had surprised him when he asked to turn left at the corner, instead of turning right, which would have been the shortest, and therefore the most logical route to the precinct.

"Where are we going?" Charles did as he was told, but was curious.

"It's time we talk, someplace private and secluded. Do you know that cliff, overlooking the city? It's right there."

"Of course," said Charles, feeling as goose bumps of anticipation cheerfully paraded down his back.

Currently, a few cottages were built there, but because of some unfathomable reason, the area is generally devoid of many artificial structures and is one of the most popular places for picnics when the weather happens to allow it. Today though, the sun is hiding behind low, grey clouds. Immediately, the absence of the jacket becomes a great deal more noticeable issue than before.

Erik exited the car in silence, but the long look he spared Charles was enough of the invitation.

So, Charles joined him, concentrating on his steps and telling himself to ignore the increasing coldness. Strong breeze still threw hair into his eyes when they both stopped right at the edge and Charles turned to look at Erik. He ignored it as well.

Erik was staring at the vast expense of sea water stretching far below their feet. Its greyness was darker than that of the sky and more menacing. This is the strangest place for the private conversation anyone could probably imagine and the wind makes it almost impossible to hear anything, snatching the words and carrying them away as soon as they leave a mouth. Only if that was the purpose, came to conclusion Charles, looking behind his back and checking the deserted plain with wariness. Erik would not be paranoid without a solid reason, right?

Finally, Erik turned around, facing him and standing so close that Charles even registered the other's body heat and completely unconsciously has nearly leaned in, seeking warmth.

"About twelve years ago, I had met Sebastian Shaw," told him Erik. The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Charles stopped thinking about it all together when he heard the next words.

"And ten years ago I killed him," calmly continued Erik, looking somewhere past his shoulder. "His boat had exploded and the remains were washed out by the storm over there."

Charles didn't turn to look at the place Erik had indicated. He simply stood there, frozen. And Erik went on.

"The body disappeared, claimed by the ocean as she had put it. Shaw used to run quite a large criminal enterprise, and police did a sloppy work of investigating his death. More for show. After all, a lot of people had to hand in resignation. Some politicians, better half of the mayor's team, the head of the police department and many, many others. The avalanche was triggered and when it came down, it was so fast that it took many people with it and I…" words were gone with the wind. Erik realized it and stopped talking.

Gods, I can't utter a word, thought Charles while straining to find something to say. And although it was Erik, who was baring his soul right now, Charles became overcome with vulnerability, swept away with a strong current, utterly defenseless.

Now Erik was clearly waiting for him to say something. His eyes burned with intent and challenge. Like always, Erik managed his encounters with direct, tough approach. Even stranger it seemed that he was waiting for Charles' reaction with such patience.

"Erik… Oh my god," he said in a rasp and given himself no time to get afraid he closed the gap between them and enveloped his friend in a hug. He immediately let go and stepped aside, but it was done.

There was no better word to describe Erik at that moment, but the word 'perplexed'.

"When I think that I know what I can expect from you this time," he said, raising his voice, "you always prove me wrong."

"Erik, don't misunderstand me," Charles said bitterly. "What you did was not right, but I want to believe that I know you. And I want to keep my honest belief that you're a genuinely good person intact… more than anything else. Everyone carries a burden, and as your friend I'll share the one you carry with you," he faltered, because for a moment he sounded too arrogant to himself. "What I mean, Erik, is that I trust you," he finished with a small smile. "So, are you willing to tell me what made you do what you did?"

And Erik started to talk again, without a single pause this time. Charles was hanging on every word, anxious not to miss a bit. He didn't enjoy remembering what he had previously read about Shaw in mass media and the rumors circulating around his name. He recalled that he'd definitely seen a book, with a gruesome cover, in his university library. It claimed to be a journalistic investigation of the demise of infamous millionaire Sebastian Shaw and offered more questions than answers. The identity of the author was hidden under an odd pseudonym.

It took his partner a while to finish. It happened for the first time — Erik, telling this story to someone, and it showed. Meanwhile, they slowly went down the hill, along the stony edge, to the place where the wind was calmer.

Guilty and horrified, Charles absorbed the terrible news about the death of Erik's wife in a car crash, two weeks after their wedding. He felt his friend's grief like his own and anticipated the continuation with trepidation. Erik had encountered Shaw soon after the accident, right when he was trying to drown himself in work and was investigating the suicide of the young man, Shaw's personal physician. Since then, he began the tedious work of collecting bits and pieces of information connecting various crimes to one pretentious magnate, who, Erik soon found out, ruled the entire city. Rather frequent street assaults written off as bouts of increasing teenage violence, contract killing so obvious that Erik was stunned at first, kidnappings and blackmailing, aiding and abetting were just on the top of the list. Some time passed and Erik's partner, one of Shaw's henchmen, having suspected Erik, immediately 'grassed him up'.

But then Raven appeared. Despite her age and lack of influential relatives, she was working for the major newspaper as a part-time reporter, was simultaneously studying in college and was one of Shaw's best surreptitious informants. Also part-time, of course. She's got an amazing natural camouflage, Erik got derisive while describing her. She can smell the changes and adapts very quickly. Sensing her master's approaching downfall, she warned Erik and he came out clean. And then, there was a boat.

"What exactly did you do?" softly asked Charles.

"Shot him," said Erik, after a pause. "Unfortunately, I didn't stop him earlier, and this is the only thing I'd have changed if I could."

Charles had a dozen of various questions, all important, but not as much as figuring out the reason for such frankness.

"Don't tell me that he's come back," exclaimed he, nervous all of the sudden.

"No, Shaw was as dead as they come," smirked Erik, a hint smugly. "No one can survive having their brains splattered on the deck."

"Well, thank you for the image," grimly replied Charles, whose vivid imagination was already supplying him with a plenty of pictures he could easily get sick from.

"I told you this, because I want you to know what's going on in case something happens," said Erik mysteriously. "Today's murder. I think, no, I'm sure that was Leland's work."

"It was the work of the professional, that's clear," Charles clasped his hands behind his back, slowing down. "Do you care to explain how the two… Ah, I get it. The successor, right?"

"Unfortunately, yes."

"Okay, so what's the plan now?"

"There's no plan," cut him off Erik. "You just need to be very careful and watch your back. Period."

"I'm afraid, I can't agree," sternly told him Charles meeting angry, steely gaze.

"Damn," muttered Erik and broke the staring contest first.

.

.

.

That guy, who Salvatore and Charles have finally caught, was making too much fuss, breaking into tears and next minute spluttering some aggressive nonsense. In Erik's opinion this was an incredible feat of annoying conduct, and that alone made him appoint Logan to perform the questioning. Besides, he had other, more important problems to deal with.

Charles made himself comfortable on his battered couch, looking through the folder intently and biting his lower lip in concentration.

"Some files are missing," he complained.

"You can guess who took them," offered Erik in explanation.

Charles' hand stilled for a second.

"I selected them myself, to be frank," clarified he.

"You are trying to help her too," nonchalantly said Charles. "Anyway, this," he gestured to the documents, "is extremely impressive, my friend."

Erik gave him a look. They have already discussed the cons of mentioning anything related to Shaw or Leland in here, the consequences which may befall them in case they do. Charles widened his eyes almost comically and managed to apologize using a very expressive pleading gaze.

Erik has been still developing immunity to it.

"Sorry to interrupt," said Logan after pushing the door open, and Erik could wager that he looked disappointed. In his own way. "It's 9 pm and I'm done with that fucktard for today. Let him stew in the cell."

"That's a rather nice idea," supported him Charles and smiled expectantly, the wretch.

"Fine, you may leave," Erik agreed.

They walked out of the office so late that by the time they did, the shadows had swallowed everything outside. Charles proposed to give Erik a lift. On their way to Erik's house, the radio forecast informed them in chipper female voice that the storm was coming. A warning, so typical for this part of the globe, nevertheless tripped off disquiet and alarm. Erik could tell the direction his mind was leading him in, but he fought it, the irrational need to flee, because he wouldn't have it any other way.

When they arrived, Charles hesitated, forehead wrinkled in a pensive way, clearly tormented by something. In the end he didn't say anything: just wished Erik good night and expressed his wish to get into bed as quickly as possible.

Raven had sneaked in through the back door at about 2 in the morning. Erik heard a noise and nearly gunned her down right on the spot. She should be thankful for the light of the half-open fridge door. Speaking of which.

"Why the hell are you stealing my food?" asked he, lowering the gun.

Raven smirked and turned on the radio on the counter. The moody, piercing melody of some pop song howled down their voices.

"Don't be mean," he seemed to hear. She bit the apple and started chewing it loudly, the very picture of misplaced defiant attitude. "I brought you your briefcase back. See?"

The briefcase was indeed on the kitchen table.

"Thank you. Now get out."

"I can't," she said, quieter.

"Humor me," he was really not in the mood.

"I need the place to lie low for a couple of days."

"No."

"For a little while?"

"You are going to leave in the morning."

"Okay," she smirked, "I wasn't hoping for more at any rate."

It was only in the morning when he entered the living room barely conscious from the short nap and three cups of coffee consumed in attempt to clear his mind that he realized the full extent of his mistake.

Raven was prancing around in his yesterday's shirt, and he could tell that she wasn't wearing anything underneath. Erik grudgingly admitted that she was definitely not an eyesore, but a huge heartsore nevertheless. Seeing as he was still hardly awake, he missed the sound of the ringing doorbell. When he rushed to the doors, it was already too late.

In the doorway, Charles was staring at Raven. Erik remembered that look. Charles looked like that when he saw his first dead body. In those early days, it was almost entertaining to watch him getting appalled — a rich, privileged kid puking his frigging guts out after having seen some blood.

That was history, and this is the present.

But, truth be told, Erik is coping with his present poorly for now.

.

.

.


	7. Chapter 7

.

.

.

Good-natured approach would have worked better, thought Charles, observing their interrogation room, currently empty, through the one-way mirror. It's a pity though that Erik won't let him participate. Besides, the fingerprint on the knife, and who would have guessed, didn't fit the drug dealer's fingerprints due to the peculiar vindictive nature of this investigation. Once convinced that circumstances and deliberate study of the evidence, if perceived and analyzed correctly, always led in the right direction, Charles would mold the case. True, some new matters were unveiled lately and thus seemed more significant and life-changing and, therefore, maybe, he had let himself miss something.

There was a barely audible click of the opening door.

"Charles? Why are you standing in the dark?" Angel turned on the switch next to the doors and came closer. The small light blinked on and off for a few seconds, before stabilizing.

"Well, what are you thinking about?" she asked, focusing her attention on the empty room as well.

"That you should be more sympathetic," hummed Charles, being slightly disoriented since early morning. And yes, he was still mainly absorbed in his inner monologue.

"Excuse me?"

"It's nothing. Never mind," he said. Good that she didn't hear that — came a relieved thought.

"Fine," she shifted, trying to peer at him closer. "About that stalker of yours…"

"Have you found anything?"

"Um, sorry. I've never done something like this before. And you should install a proper security system in your flat, you know. The one you have is really crappy. My step-dad, the second one, works for a firm responsible for office security. I can't guarantee his honesty when it comes to money, but he may give a sound advice. I hope. After all, this is his business."

"Thanks, dear. I'll think about it."

"Jesus!" she chuckled, effectively feigning shyness, "Stop with the endearments, I've told you."

"Shall try," smiled Charles halfheartedly, "but can't promise anything."

"We'll see," she winked at him and got serious again. "I'd checked people from your list of primary suspects. Majority has the solid alibi — I mean, speaking of the night when someone broke in your apartment. Those who don't, um, just don't seem crazy to me… Charles, I repeat, that I'm not sure. I don't specialize in," she made a vague gesture, "in this stuff."

Charles couldn't force out any words of reassurance which would sound sincere enough in this situation. And in his current mental state. Instead, he said.

"I'll probably move out in any case… find someplace safer and closer to the precinct."

"Maybe closer to Lehnsherr's place then," Angel suggested slyly, playfully. "Since you're his personal chauffeur anyway. Oh? Hey, did I say something I shouldn't have? Forgive me. My tongue has just moved on its own," quickly reacted she when Charles grimaced, unable to keep his expression neutral.

"No, you're absolutely right," said Charles and turned to leave. "I'll probably speak to my neighbors myself one more time, if you don't mind."

"But, it's, it won't be…" she faltered.

"It'll be all right, Angel."

.

.

.

Presently, Charles was in the process of making himself tea. To put it simply, he was waiting for some water to boil as he cautiously ripped open the tea bag and emptied its contents into the yellow mug. He heard the snicker behind his back. Solemn, he paid no attention to Logan. And he did not linger. Instead, he silently grabbed the mug, and went back to his desk.

Hank, mumbling something under his nose, has nearly collided into him. Charles stepped aside in time but a splash of hot liquid landed on his hand nonetheless.

"Charles! I'm so sorry," Henry flushed, slumping in embarrassment, and actually made it tough for Charles to continue on his interrupted route, seeing as he was standing in his way.

"Now I realize why Erik made up this no drinking and eating rule in here," sighed Charles, shifting his grip on the mug. Though the room seemed fairly big at first sight, the place was incredibly crowded. As if the space was shrunk by some eerie magical spell and, as time went by, it was getting gradually smaller.

"Is he back?" immediately asked him Hank, wildly looking around. Now Charles noticed that he was not wearing his glasses.

"As far as I know, he is not," calmly answered Charles and felt it would be prudent to ask a question in his turn. So he did.

"What's the matter?"

"I think, I've solved the Pirson's case. I'm ninety percent sure I found the right car!" said Hank. The ends of his ears turned red at the words. Hank, oh Hank.

"That's amazing, Hank! Great job! But, do you mind if I go and put down this bloody mug at last?"

Apparently, Hank hasn't noticed that Charles was holding something at all. He went all apologetic at him again. Trying to be civil, Charles shushed him quickly, finally sitting at his desk and taping in his password. To tell that he expected to be greeted by the sight of Raven, wearing Erik's shirt early in the morning, casually opening the doors of Erik's house, would be the understatement of the year. His wannabe mature attitude for contented acceptance of their relationship crumbled like a house of cards and lay in pathetic disarray. Heavyhearted but utterly sobering experience needed to be processed. That's why after coming here Charles realized that he was as good as useless today, meaning that he wasn't able to get back to actual work. Fortunately, Erik was away, tutoring Sean, and, as practice showed, everyone could relax a little, expecting their boss back only in the afternoon.

Soon, he was assaulted by an obligatory lousy headache, but went on writing the report and wondering what was taking Erik so long. Finally, Sean appeared, announcing his displeasure to everyone willing or unwilling to hear. Seeing as Charles and Hank were the only people present, he could have turned down the volume.

"He left me! Lehnsherr, that son of," Sean met Charles' gaze and obediently coughed, awkwardly swallowing the insult.

"Sean, where is Lehnsherr?" stepped in Hank, "I'd called him five or six times already. Why isn't he available?"

Charles perked up, a tight knot of great concern twisting in his chest.

"That's what I'm trying to say," grumbled Sean aiming for his chair and kicking wall instead. "Damn! Ouch, it hurts! He left me there, you know. That place where the taxis refuse to go to, because it's so damn far. I had to run from the pack of wild dogs, can you believe it?"

"Sean, let's get straight to the point," said Charles, registering unpleasant dryness in his mouth. Words got unnaturally heavy. "When exactly did he left? What happened before he left? Was he acting strange?"

"Wow! Hold on, Charles! " Sean raised both hands in defeat, "What's going on?"

"I do hope that nothing in particular," Charles rubbed his temples — increasing worry induced the arrival of stabbing ice picks jabbing right there.

"I remember, that he'd got a call," said Sean. "And he left, let me think, at two, no, maybe earlier," he looked at Charles sharply. "I don't know whether he was acting strange per se. If you ask me, he's got one emotion he bestows upon people. Anger. Under different sauce every time. That didn't change at all."

"Well, thank you, Sean," and Charles meant it.

He immediately took his mobile and pressed the speed dial. After the third unanswered call, he started to count seconds, inwardly listing all possible, and very legitimate, reasons why Erik would not be able to answer his phone. Charles looked up and found both Hank and Sean exchanging some weird gestures.

"Charles," ventures Hank, fidgeting. His voice tore down the abrupt, uneasy silence, "Could you tell us what's wrong?"

He shook his head and hoped that the motion conveyed appropriate amount of apology. These were not his secrets to share. Fortunately.

"If you decide to go looking for him, think one more time," Sean said meaningfully.

"You mean…"

"I mean, it's going to rain and what not. The storm? Hello there!" exclaimed Sean and Charles manages a smile at his emotional outburst.

"I'm not sure," he confesses, "where he might be."

And then he recalled that fatal day last winter. The smell of sweet perfume, headache, an accident in the corridor, his tweed jacket, whose miserable fate he will never ever find out. Right. And there was Raven; Raven, who had slipped her card with phone number in his pocket. He remembered that he had taken it out and… Charles opened the lowest drawer of his desk and his eye caught the small paper box, which used to be full of chocolate candies. How and when did it appear in his drawer he had no idea, maybe Amy bought it for him, but he was too lazy to do anything with it at the time and didn't enjoy sweets that much; he offered them to Sean and Angel, and, instead of throwing it away, he somehow developed a habit of putting little notes, business cards and all tiny important things in this box. His mother would have had a fit if she had seen it.

Plain, white piece of paper was on the bottom of the box.

He went out, quietly shutting the doors. Charles decided to walk down the corridor, his feet carrying him to the eastern wing where the parking lot was, as he pressed the phone to his ear.

"Hello," he said when somebody picked up. "I'm sorry to…"

"Charles!" Raven instantly recognized him. "Good afternoon to my favorite police officer."

"Miss Darkholme, um, Raven," he struggled, assaulted by exuberance, "I need your help."

"Well," she said, business-like, "go on then."

"Erik isn't picking up," started Charles, "and I have no idea where he is. Maybe, there's nothing to worry about, but with this recent murder," he paused, "and he told me that a decade ago you two were involved in…"

"Understood," interrupted him Raven briskly. "It's not wise to speak about it on the phone. Write down the address and meet me there in an hour."

Charles scowled, — glad that she wasn't able to see him. That commanding manner was easily recognizable. Although, beggars can't be choosers.

"Thank you," he said, but Raven had already ended the call.

.

.

.

Erik had an officially shitty day. It didn't start off particularly well. Firstly, he'd had an awful morning. Secondly, Charles was practically radiating anguish, and, as usual, refused to tell him what the hell had gotten into him again. So, everything had been already peachy when he got a call from Emma, and had to abandon Cassidy, the chatterbox, at the crime scene and drive through the entire city, which was a traffic nightmare at this hour. Emma sounded a hint shaky and very persistent on the phone. She told him that she left her cottage due to the storm warning and was waiting for him in her apartment.

Outside, this frigging storm was taking its time too. Erik wanted it to start already. While sitting in the relative comfort of his car, waiting for the green light, he, sort of, felt sorry for everyone crossing the road, as wind was getting stronger and colder — it blew dust, litter and tiny droplets of water, overwhelming people and tearing umbrellas from their hands. Windscreen wipers were working like mad.

When Erik got out of the car, he finally understood the extent of the unpleasantness he observed from the interior so far. Fuck, it felt as if wind, the horseman of the storm, was trying to ambush and also blind him for good.

Before taking the elevator he stopped in the lobby, thinking. A dicey situation. Unfortunately, foul mood often deafens the voice of reason and he is aware of that because more often than strictly necessary Erik experienced consequences. He must inform someone of his whereabouts. No, not Charles, denied Erik the first name he came up with. There's no need to drag him deeper into this shit. But, he knows one person who has already come to a sticky end. No harm done — decided Erik and texted Raven, adding in the post scriptum that she was not welcomed into his house, ever. There are missed calls: McCoy, well, Erik hopes that he made a breakthrough this time, and, anyway, he will call him back later.

Emma opened the doors quickly. Amazingly so. As if she was standing in the corridor the whole time, waiting for the bell to ring.

"I was afraid, you'd change your mind," she said.

"I was going to," replied Erik. And he wasn't lying. If not for the fact that Erik was indirectly responsible for her brother's death — Shaw killed him before he had a chance to shoot the bastard, — he would have never come. Being the manipulative bitch, Emma knew it and used it today. Eat your heart now, Machiavelli.

"Are you coming in?" she asked, impatient. She looked like she always did, but, now, the vague feeling of danger transformed into something else. It was sharper; it was alive and breathing down his neck, almost like a beast, ready to rip him to shreds. Definitely a set up. And, they were close; he could feel eyes trained on him. So, not in the flat, then. Where?

"Not a chance," said Erik and stepped back.

It was deep-rooted instinct that saved him: Erik ducked before the bullet hit him, grabbed his gun and if not for Emma, who suddenly lashed out at him, he could have taken out two suits appearing from the door of the flat opposite Emma's. Maybe. But, whilst pushing her away, he'd lost a precious second, needed to open fire. Stupid, stupid mistake worthy of one of his rookies. With back to the wall and his gun picked by one of men he had no choice but to raise his hands, and did it very carefully, seeing as one of the henchmen, who tried to shoot him, was noticeably shaking. Shit, these scared newbies are worst of all. The second one, with immaculate stance and grim face, didn't even blink once. Fuck, Leland did him proud and hired a killer.

"Stop shooting! Dumb motherfuckers," he heard a gruff voice accompanied by fast steps, coming from the still open door to Emma's flat.

Meanwhile, Emma has leaned on the opposite door and crossed her arms, meeting his eyes with resolution.

"No offence, Lehnsherr. They have my daughter. And they said that Leland only wanted to talk," the last sentence was bordering on apologetic.

Erik didn't want to acknowledge her, too busy staring at the man, his former captain, who showed up in the doorway. It seems that even spent material has crawled out of some dirty dust hole as soon as the cash draught got steadier.

"Surprised, Lehnsherr?" asked him the asshole.

"No, just disgusted," retorted Erik, keeping his face carefully blank. Fuck this, he shouldn't have sent that message to Raven.

He expected the punch and was ready for it. Knowing old Frank, he was really surprised that none followed.

"Talk first, abuse later — that's the motto of mister Leland," grunted a former officer with a contemptuous smirk.

I'll sooner die from annoyance than from whatever they have in store for me — groaned Erik inwardly.

"Where is she?" gritted out Emma, and tried to come closer, but one of the henchmen has pushed her back.

"Like promised, lady," Frank tossed her a mobile, which she caught in midair, throwing him an icy look. "In ten minutes, you'll get a call. No calling the police or alerting anybody by any means, you hear me?"

"Clearly."

"If someone asks about the shooting, you don't know anything, but you've seen two men running down the stairs. You can't remember their faces," instructed he.

Emma just nodded this time, averting her gaze.

"As for you, Lehnsherr, you're coming with us."

Feeling cornered and trapped was not something he appreciated. And yet, Erik felt the great wave of gloomy self-satisfaction. Let them think that they have outsmarted him, let them believe it. And then he'll kill the fat bastard just like he killed Shaw — his lackeys be damned — the very instant he lowers his guard. Upon making the decision, Erik got a grip over his anxiety. He was ready.

.

.

.

There is a narrow, filthy street, shut in between grey, lofty houses, with an abundance of garbage and occasional stray dogs with evil, hungry eyes. Under the darkening sky, a dingy building with innumerable windows in it, the very number Raven gave him, seems animated, moaning and groaning, or, is it just the trick of wind. Charles arrived a bit earlier than it was arranged and was cautiously monitoring his surroundings. Tired of useless staring around and wary of cold he got back into the car. Worry, deep and dark, is eating him alive. Besides, Charles heaves a sigh, he needs to regain his composure before Raven sees him in this state. Asking for her help was painful enough, but bearable, and Charles hates to admit that he still has less knowledge about Erik than he originally thought. This is your pride talking, don't listen to it he repeats again and again. Focus, he tells himself, because this is not important right now.

He flinched when the ringtone hindered on him. Charles looked at the phone screen and felt a pang of surprise mixed with unease. Jason? What could have happened?

"Hi, Charles!" greets him his neighbor, "I hope, I'm not interrupting anything important."

"No, you are not," reassures him Charles. "How have you been?"

"Good, thank you, Charles. And you? No, that's not a nice question considering the circumstances. Um," stuttered Jason, agitated, "well, sorry, I'm a little nervous. That girl came, your co-worker, I guess, and asked questions."

"You mean Angel Salvatore, right?"

"Yes, that's right. I think. I do remember faces better than I remember people's names," apologizes Jason. "Dark hair, dark eyes, very pretty. Correct?"

"Jason, you are not calling me to ask her phone number, are you?"

"No, no," vehemently denied Jason, "I, just, forgot to mention one detail, although probably very important, when she was asking about that day. You know, damn, it's complicated," he lowered his voice and Charles was going to ask him to talk louder, when the knocking at his windscreen startled and interrupted him.

Good. Raven was already here, wearing a black jacket and holding a large, black umbrella. Anticipated pouring rain has just begun.

"I'm very sorry, Jason. I need to go now," quickly said Charles, getting out of the car to meet her. Due to the furious wailing of wind he missed Jason's reply completely.

"I'll call you back, sorry again."

Raven motioned him to join her under the umbrella. Actually, the thing was so large that it was probably designed for two, like a family umbrella or an umbrella for couples.

"Why don't we get into the car?" immediately asked Charles.

"Because we don't want to attract any attention," she looked at him and then at his car. "It's too expensive for this neighborhood. As well as your suit, of course."

"Well, sorry, that I don't carry around the homeless disguise in the bag, just in case," returned the jab Charles.

"You are a bit vain," she observed, thoughtfully, "but I like it. Come on, we need to go. Lehnsherr is with Leland now," she clarified, and Charles' heart missed a beat at that. It appears, his fears came alive.

Raven huffed, and hooked her arm round Charles' elbow. Strangely enough, Charles became rather comfortable with her, especially now. She was obviously pretty tough and ruthless, and though he couldn't find it in himself to trust her, he was almost glad that Raven was nearby. They turned at the corner and found themselves in the wider street, with less dirt and more cars.

"I suppose, they are in Shaw's former quarters," went on Raven. "One block ahead there is an old hotel; that's where we can find them. Leland's people are watching the premises though, so I will try to go in first, since I've been there before. Charles, watch out!" he dimly felt that she grabbed his injured arm, right there the stitches stung, and pulled him back. Pain flared up instantly. Wind had torn umbrella from Raven's hand and away. And Charles was immediately soaked to the bone.

The very car, which had nearly killed them both, and on the sidewalk, mind that, has dissolved down the road, under the heavy curtain of rain.

"Thanks," got out Charles, "Goodness, please, let go of me."

They were pressed so close that the proximity was a touch obscene. Charles could feel the lines of her body with his own, and wet clothes were not helping the matter. He hastened to back away. Raven, long blond hair plastered to her face and looking as drenched as he felt, still had her back to the iron fence and she had the nerve to leer at him.

"I'm offended," she raised her voice against rain. "You should see your face. I've seen corpses looking livelier. It's unusual for a man to look like that when we fall into each others arms."

"My apologies," Charles felt a distant urge to lose his temper. "I thought, we were going to rescue my best friend and your," oh no, he can't even say the word, "Why are you so careless, enlighten me, please? Erik's life is at stake now."

"Why shouldn't I be," she replied. "And we've never been whatever you were trying to imply we were. It, just, was never an option, just an eclipse of the mind, like the bastard used to say. Never," defeated, she leaned on the iron bars and closed her eyes.

Could she be in love with Erik? Did he even know about it?

All that sadness, all the hurt he could feel seeping from angry words was familiar. Charles had ears and eyes for sorrow, yet every time it was so hard to watch it blossom and encompass human hearts. Mindful, he moved closer and gently touched her cheek, tracing the delicate skin with light and he hoped soothing stroke. Raven breathed in and opened her eyes, the expression guarded and unreadable.

"You're wonderful, Raven," he said confidently. "Don't ever let yourself have any doubts about that. And immensely beautiful and formidable, and if I knew you any better I'd find more words."

She smiled, a little, — not her usual smirk or grin, he was used to.

Charles smiled in response. The only thing which was warming him now was the selfish, but nevertheless gratifying realization that Erik and Raven were not together and the second, nor less gratifying — that he managed to cheer her up.

"So, now that you know that I'm so wonderful and so lonely…"

"Sorry, but no."

"Damn," she scowled.

"Raven," he scolded her with a look, "show the way. The rain is getting stronger and if we don't find cover soon…"

"I get it! Look here, we need to go to Shaw's safe-house now. It's not in use anymore but there is an old tunnel which connects it to the hotel," she clasped his hand and they started to run in the direction pointed by Raven.

Running was sort of pointless now, seeing as they have lost their umbrella and were actually already soaked from head to toe. At least, a little warming up was in order. Charles was so going to catch a cold during this adventure. In case he survives, of course. Raved led them to some two-storied, massive brick house with windows blocked by wooden panels, seemingly abandoned. Stone steps were leading to the heavy, wooden doors. At the doors she pushed aside the flower-pot, the single inhabitant of which was something dry and convoluted, and swore. There wasn't any key, in the most obvious place imaginable. Of course, not. Charles rolled his eyes in exasperation, using her fit of rage to examine the doors. Upon coming closer, Charles noticed that the lock was shiny, read new, and hence, this place may not be as empty as it seems.

"Do you by chance have a pick-lock or something which can be used as such?"

Raven shrugged.

"You have a gun, detective Xavier. Why don't you just zing it through? Nobody will pay attention to the shot in this storm."

She was right.

Charles pulled out a gun and did as she advised. After all, Raven assured him that in the house there is a secret storage of weaponry only she was aware about. Together, they pushed open the doors and finally stumbled into dark, dusty hall. Raven took out her mobile and turned on the flashlight. Charles tilted his head up and was met with the canopy of spider-webs decorating the ceiling. House smelled of loneliness and death, like a mausoleum.

"This way," urged him Raven and gestured to the left. "If I know about the passage, Leland knows too. There will be guards. Let's gear up."

"Let's," echoed her Charles.

House watched them disdainfully.

.

.

.


	8. Chapter 8

_._

_._

_._

_There was only one, but nevertheless crucial problem with Erik standing so close to him. The very fact challenged Charles' currently almost non-existent power of concentration and his hand gripping the gun began shaking, however slightly. Yet, Erik had noticed. Of course, he had. Meeting Erik's resolute look Charles lowered down the weapon. It was hopeless. He was hopeless._

"_Not bad," calmly commented Erik looking at the intended target. "After all, I was always wondering how you passed the test in the first place. You're not that hopeless."_

"_You're too kind," told him Charles._

_His ears were still ringing a bit, seeing as Erik prohibited him from wearing noise protection. According to his boss, one should get used to the sound of gunshots. In real life no one runs around with ear muffs on. Charles objected at the beginning and noted that that was not the case, but Erik spared him a very unimpressed look and here we are. Honestly, if choosing between the fair probability of damaging his hearing and getting on Erik's bad side, he would obviously vote for the former. _

"_You didn't need to come with me," Charles put the gun down with relief. Enough for today. "Although, I'm glad that you did," he smiled, turning to Erik._

"_I'll schedule the room for tomorrow and every evening for the rest of the month," firmly stated Erik._

_Charles was not sure what kind of expression he had right now but it definitely amused Erik. _

"_And I'll supervise you, of course."_

"_I really want to take back the earlier statement. Clearly, you're not kind," only Erik managed to make him feel annoyed and excited at the same time. _

"_Charles," no longer neutral his voice turned harsh for Erik was serious and Erik was also frustrated with him. _

"_Goodness. I know, Erik, I know," he was so lucky that they were alone in the room and no one was witnessing the exchange, thought Charles. "But you can't make me into something I am not. Even with the best intentions. Sorry, but it's just…"_

"_Well, then you must quit."_

"_What did you say?" blood drained from his face and he looked up at Erik with dread._

"_You're very capable," went on Erik, unwaveringly. "Unfortunately, you have the problem with the attitude. You'll end up dead or badly hurt one day if you don't ditch this morality shit of yours. And I'd rather you leave before that happens. Consider other career prospects. I'm sure, that's not a problem for someone like you." _

"_For someone like me," dumbly repeated Charles, struggling to think of any retort and failing. _

"_Come to think of it, you'll get into trouble in any case," pointed out Erik after a thoughtful pause. "What I want Charles is for you, that you understand. Ah, damn it!"_

_Next Erik's actions took Charles completely by surprise. He's never expected to have his hand forcefully clasped around the gun and to have the same gun pointed straight at his friend's temple. He struggled to shake off the tight grip and tried to use his free hand to overpower Erik, but the latter grabbed his left wrist, twisting it, and even managed to turn them around, slamming Charles into the wall. _

"_Erik!" he cried out, desperate to break free. "Erik, what are you thinking?! Please, let go of my hand. It's dangerous!"_

"_Exactly," Erik seemed unfazed. "It's dangerous, and it's not easy to be the one holding the gun and it's even more dangerous to have it pointed at you or at someone else you wish to protect. If you stay, be ready to face both or else," he relaxed his grip and carefully lowered their clasped hands down. "When time comes you will not hesitate, you hear me?"_

"_Yeah," Charles took a deep breath, stealing a brief meaningful glance at their clasped hands. _

_Dread was washed away by weary defeat. So the rumors Angel has been feeding them about detective Lehnsherr are at least partially true. Putting aside Erik's questionable mental health and such, he did scare Charles for a moment._

"_I will try. Gods, Erik, you are a tough teacher. No wonder everyone is, oh sorry, forget I said that."_

"_What are you talking about?" Erik finally let go of him completely and stepped back._

"_Nothing," Charles stifled the urge to turn it into a joke, which was the only available way to reduce the tension, really. _

"_And also no unnecessary heroics, ever," warned him Erik. _

"_You're contradicting yourself," almost flared up Charles. "Didn't you just say that…"_

"_So, now you've started objecting," Erik didn't let him finish. "One more round, Charles, and this time you need to watch your stance. I will show you."_

_Charles straightened and, resigned, approached the empty stall. Erik watched him reloading the gun and then, as promised, came up closer and put one hand on Charles' forearm, moving it so that Charles had to lift his arm higher._

"_Like this," said Erik when he was finally satisfied._

_Thank god that the light's so poor — if it wasn't and if Erik by chance noticed how flustered Charles had become — oh dear, it would have been a disaster. And a very embarrassing one without a doubt._

_._

_._

_._

He knew about the hotel. It was not that terrible of a secret and sometimes, when he was having an especially bad day at work, he casually entertained the idea of acquiring a couple of pounds of nitramide and blowing up the damn hellhole for good.

For some reason, the corridors were lit only partially and striped burgundy wallpaper was probably a decade old, seeing as the seams and corners were not attached to the walls anymore. Red carpet under Erik's feet was dusty and he could see the wet footprints left by someone caught up in the rain. Footprints led Erik and his temporary retainers to the dark-brown doors. Room number 202. Two men stationed at the door looked uncomfortable in their black suits and Erik's trained eye caught the unmistakable budges where the guns were strapped to the belts. He idly wondered where Frank picked up such fine specimen, but refrained from making a comment.

The room they have walked in was willing to compromise on quality and luxury and looked like nothing Erik had expected. Again, absurdly disgusting flowery wallpaper and worn, standard furniture. And general abundance of red everywhere. Although it was clean, certainly cleaner than the lobby and the corridor he passed on the way here. Maybe, Leland likes people to be offed elsewhere, smirked Erik, grimly amused with his choice of words. Old Frank did not share the sentiment though. Judging by the glower he sent in Erik's direction, he was already picturing him dead. Get in the line then, though Erik.

He was searched for weapon before, while he and his escort have been waiting in the lobby for forty minutes or so, and his phone, as well as his firearm migrated to one of the henchmen even earlier. It doesn't matter anyway. In a room full of armed men, he will be able to snatch the needed gun given the right moment and some skill. Actually, he felt a familiar dark surge of excitement rising up at the idea deep, deep down. It fired his blood like nothing else and he hadn't felt this exhilarated in ages.

The origin of the wet footprints was discovered immediately. Here, in the armchair in the corner sits Leland, fat and unnaturally pale as usual, and opposite him stands a drenched, dark-haired man, nervously mumbling and clutching a briefcase like a lifeline.

All in all, Erik has noticed three men in the lobby, two guards at the doors and three in the room. Together with Frank and his two henchmen we have eleven. Someone has to patrol the premises despite the rain and also there are more guards stashed somewhere in the lair, that's the given. He'll worry about it later, decides Erik and mutely complies when Leland beckons him closer, waving the drenched man with the briefcase aside.

Erik lowered himself in the plush armchair opposite Leland, observing the drama of the poor drenched bastard being dragged away by the man previously stationed next to a wannabe crime lord. Frank groaned in annoyance and sat on the nearby couch, his hand immediately darting to the half-filled glass on the coffee table.

"Good afternoon, detective Lehnsherr," greeted Leland in a deep, astoundingly smooth voice, polished to perfection by the numerous public speeches.

Upon hearing his voice one has to overcome the slight cognitive dissonance caused by the clash of uncanny physical appearance and powerful influence of the man's manner to speak and carry himself with utmost confidence. Or so it seems. Oh well, Erik happens to harbor a strong belief that it is only a skillful pretense. Nothing more. Though this one is definitely not Shaw. He doesn't have the madness written on his forehead in big screaming letters unlike his predecessor. Yeah, he is just mercenary and power hungry. An ordinary lawyer, one may say. Hell, an ordinary citizen even.

When Leland noticed that Erik wasn't reacting to his greeting verbally he smiled at him. That all-knowing smile raised Erik's hackles. Instantaneously.

"Frank has kindly informed me that you are not a talkative type, mister Lehnsherr," said Leland.

"He may go join other vermin in hell," offered Erik almost friendly.

"Only after you, Lehnsherr, only after you," chuckled Frank from his perch on the couch.

"Gentlemen," intruded Leland, bemused, "Let's stop the needless tiff over trivial matters, shall we?"

Erik's mouth has twitched, but one more time he stopped himself from uttering anything and turned the twitch into a smirk.

"I can't but mention that mister Frank was very skeptical about arranging this meeting with you."

"I can only imagine," flatly said Erik.

"However, I insisted," drawled Leland and clasped his fat hands together in the show of mock enthusiasm. "I have an honest belief that every man can be, let's say, talked around."

"Sure," voiced his agreement Erik. "Unfortunately recently, one very dead colleague of yours proved otherwise. Why was that, I wonder?"

"For every rule there's an exception."

Erik unconsciously gritted his teeth and Leland didn't miss it.

"Is there any reason to be angry, mister Lehnsherr?" asked he. "What for?"

It was extremely difficult not to snap that instant. And he was so proud of his self-control a minute ago. Fucking hell. What is it, with this sleazy dickhead and his slapstick comedy.

Meanwhile, the show went on.

"I dare say that won't be a terrible exaggeration on my part when I tell you that I know a lot about you, mister Lehnsherr. In fact, after having received this information I was immensely impressed. Believe me or not, I know people, I know what they are capable of, and you, trust me, you're so much more…"

His velvety voice faded for a moment when Erik, strangely detached, suddenly thought of Charles. And it was Charles' voice, instead of Leland's, telling him in typical Charles' fashion some odd motivating speech. Something about burdens, Erik being genuinely good, Charles' trust in him and so on. Now, Erik finally remembers hearing that and silently musing to himself how delusional his partner can be at times, how naïve and oblivious. Erik is neither. Neither a villain nor a knight, but rather someone bound to the grey and obscure purgatory of in-between. He feels comfortable there. Hn, was there any choice to make? Everything's easy and crystal clear. Like always. Considering this man — Erik calmly observed still talking Leland, who has probably mistaken Erik's stern silence for attention. Let him talk. He is going to die soon anyway.

"Playing tough, Lehnsherr?" huffed out Frank and Erik struggled to catch his bearings. He missed a great deal of conversation, but was not willing to show it. However much he wished for the asshole to shut the fuck up, this had to wait.

"Well, we all have something to lose, don't we?" smiled Leland and Erik has understood at last. Apparently, they've come to the next stage: namely — the threats.

All eyes were on him, so Erik did the only think he could come up with. He shrugged, nonchalant, effectively rendering Frank visibly pissed. Leland, on the other hand, measured him with remarkably cold eyes; a vile smile slowly dawned on his puffy face.

"As I have mentioned previously, mister Lehnsherr, I've come to know quite a lot about you. Do you possibly want to claim that you don't care about anyone or anything?"

"Obviously, I do," said Erik, surprising even himself. He paused, feeling the shift in the atmosphere, and carefully selected his next words. Time has come to cut this crap right now.

But, once he opened his mouth, suddenly the lights went off. That's it. Not wasting a second he jumped to his feet and launched himself at the closest guard next to the window. His elbow has collided into the other's body and Erik was rewarded with the painful grunt. He pulled the carelessly extended arm back and slammed it against the wall. The corresponding crack and screaming were drowned in the cacophony of rapid gunfire, but Erik was already falling to the floor, using the guard's body as a shield. Just in time. The impact of a few bullets going into the body was so strong that for a moment he thought that one of them had got him. Finally, finally his fingers have found the gun, which has fallen to the floor during his attack.

"Stop it!" he heard Frank through the commotion, "Stop it, damn it! Protect the boss!"

Frantic breathing and someone's heavy wheezing filled the room. And the storm wailed, and howled, and screeched outside adding to the havoc in the darkened room, which already smelled of blood.

Erik raised the arm from his position on the floor. Well done, Frank, keep screaming. It was reckless of him, and yet, Erik flicked his wrist in a way he always insisted was the dumbest way one could handle a gun and pulled the trigger.

The enormously loud, deafening sound of explosion swallowed the gunshot completely.

.

.

.

Now and then Charles felt her eyes on him, and he was hardly able to suppress the answering weary glance of his own. _You won't back out, will you?_ She was silently questioning him. Perhaps, she was right in her distrust and Charles could understand that well, but still, he was rather encumbered by the attitude even as reasonable as it was, given their circumstances.

"Are you sure about this?" she dubiously eyed the end nippers he thrust in her hand.

"Absolutely," repeated Charles for the second time.

Raven took the nippers and strapped them to her thigh holder, next to the heavy duty knife.

"Okay," she tightened the leather strap. "I will try to cut off the power if you are so sure that it's gonna work."

"Please, be careful! Don't forget to use protection," reminded her Charles.

Raven grinned, never the one to miss the unintended innuendo.

"We still don't know whether Erik is there or not; and as soon as we enter the premises we won't be able to spare a minute to perform a decent search. I'm basically counting on him being alert and, hopefully, unharmed," it was akin to taking up an interrupted chess game blind, without a clue to the opponent's previous moves and general disposition. That's the biggest gamble he has ever taken in his whole life. They risked so much — engaging against an enemy ten times as strong. He couldn't afford to make a mere misstep, grimly mused Charles.

"Aren't you glad that I've taken out that guy before he saw us," Raven gestured to the unconscious bundle in the corner of the basement. As suspected, the house was not totally abandoned. And, fortunately for them, Raven in action was a force to be reckoned with.

"Yes, I am glad," Charles didn't even help her to bind the guard. He feels awful, disgusted with himself and the situation. Looking at Raven now he sees not a pretty woman but a soldier, a warrior with no qualms about fighting, hurting others or dying. She's in her element and he's so obviously not. Yet, he keeps on faking it. He has to.

The plan he's designed practically on the spot was as crazy as it was simple. So thought Charles. In Raven's view, it was just crazy. Anyway, she reluctantly agreed to obey and right now she seems more confident in the whole affair than Charles himself.

First and foremost, they will need some distraction, hassle and chaos. Hence, he decided to start with the black out. With the storm raging outside, it may be written off as the result of one. It'll give Charles some necessary time to bring into action explosives they have discovered hidden beneath the trap door Raven has stumbled upon. Here, he must be extra careful. He looked one more time at his phone screen, displaying the plan of the building they will be breaking in, memorizing the scheme and silently thanking the almighty technical progress for such amazing inventions.

"How do you know what to do with this shi-stuff? Tell me that you've done it before."

Raven probably meant explosives.

"Of course I haven't," humored her Charles, shoving the newly acquired Walter P99 into the holster on his left side, and absently wondering at the good state the gun was in.

"You know, now I'm sort of relieved that I will be stuck with wires and nippers outside the building."

"As you should be," two handguns are more than enough, decided Charles and refrained from taking anything else. It was anxiety talking, prompting him to do something ridiculous: like fetch a machine gun and also a cluster of grenades and maybe a rifle on top of that. Anyhow, firepower is not a factor one should rely on in situations like this.

Raven kept silent after that. She showed the way to the tunnel, which, Charles observed, dated back to the first half of the previous century. It was relatively short and then they came to the end Raven stealthily slid through the door. His ears have caught the sound of a short scuffle which died almost as soon as it had started.

He pushed open the door and found himself in another basement. This one crowded with broken furniture and lots of crates. Some of them covered by tent-cloth, bearing the thick layer of dust. Well, he may as well start from here and see for himself how theory can be applied to practice.

"You have fifteen minutes from now on," he waited for her nod. "I assume you should manage in time. Do you remember the scheme I've showed you?"

"Partly. But fear not, I won't screw up."

"True," Charles was more worried about himself at this point, not out of pure selfishness but because he knew himself too well. They didn't exchange any reassuring words after all. She simply left and Charles went to work.

He finished in five minutes and stepped aside, mentally calculating the amount of time he will need to get to the other pre-planned point. Charles shifted his grip on the bag and went to the exit. From there he stepped into a kitchen, turned at the corner and noticed the man in black suit, talking on the phone animatedly and, thankfully, looking in the opposite direction.

Charles took a measured step back, softly dropping the bag to the ground. No shooting before diversion takes place — that's what he sternly told Raven before. He intended to stick to the rule so he swiftly closed the distance between himself and the guard and, sparing no time for hesitation, kicked the target's shin, applying enough force to unbalance the man, and then grabbed him into the chokehold. His victim struggled, groaning and gasping for air, grabbing his arm and elbowing him back once and then twice, but Charles only gradually increased the pressure, feeling peculiarly disconnected and, all of a sudden, composed. In his head he never stopped counting the seconds until the purple-faced man started to sag.

Can't leave him here — thinks he and proceeds dragging the body back into the kitchen. Figuring that he doesn't have much time left Charles picked up his bag and sped up. Next time he ran into the man in the similar dark suit coming out of what seemed to be a washroom. Charles was as surprised as he, but, it appears, Charles recovered faster. This time, he just slammed the half-opened door into the man's face and also didn't let him make a sound, let alone raise an alarm. If his watch isn't lying, he has three more minutes before the black out, sighed Charles, contemplating his choices. Here, on the left, there should be a storeroom. Alright, this is a good option too.

When he was leaving the storeroom the lights in the corridor went off. Enveloped in thick darkness Charles froze, momentarily taken aback, as gunshots rang in the dark, piercing like needles. He found himself running in the direction, trying to flick on his flashlight and missing the switch in haste, up the flight of stairs, where the first explosion caught up with him. The building shook and Charles clasped the railing in order to keep himself on his feet. Raven did ask a very sensible question; he had to admit this. For it was a bit of an overkill.

After inhaling a healthy amount of dust and nearly slipping on the solid pieces of fallen plaster he hastened ahead, hurriedly scanning the surroundings while pulling out the gun. As usual, his mind was working on autopilot, registering somewhat muffled shouts from behind: no footsteps, the lobby must be blocked by the debris, so it worked. New series of rounds came from the second floor he was headed to. Charles kicked open the doors and had to dart to the left when the figure came running from the dark, screaming at him to get help.

Cringing, Charles sidestepped and thus pushed the man in the direction of the staircase. There was an indignant screech and then a groan when the stranger landed on the ground after the painful collision with the railing.

Charles had the bright and timely inclination to switch off the flashlight. He did it, albeit in doing so, dropped the flash light to the floor. Damn, this is neither the place nor the time to turn on clumsiness.

More footsteps echo down the corridor nearing him. Too fast, thinks Charles and within a second he is on the floor, stunned from the fall and helplessly clawing at the powerful forearm crushing his windpipe. Trapped beneath the body of the man assaulting him, he registers the tiny details he has been collecting and treasuring for a while: a familiar smell, that low voice growling in his ear and that's enough, really. The name comes easy to him, so easy in fact that he would have cried in relief were he not on the verge of passing out.

In the end it was a wonder that his pathetic hiss did reach the target.

"Erik," right now it is the only thing he can manage.

"The fuck! Charles?"

Angry voices are shouting, getting closer.

Erik lets go, and Charles, half-crazed with onslaught of emotions and very panicked, pulls Erik closer, quickly makes way for his hand and pulls the trigger, aiming at the voices. Whatever inhibitors he used to have, they have just ceased existing completely. In this very moment gun feels light in his hand and he doesn't flinch.

He comes to Erik helping him up and Charles remembers to whisper that the staircase must be blocked. He is not sure he can get out anything aside from whisper — his throat is extremely raw and upon getting up he stumbles, a touch lightheaded.

Frantically, Erik tries the door to the closest room. And, oh wonder, it's open.

He pushes Charles inside and follows suit.

Yes, Charles allows himself to lean on the wall and bask in the rapture. Erik is here. With him. Goodness. The moment is so breathtaking. So wonderful.

"Hey, Charles," warm hands are touching his face and Charles shudders when he realizes that the sticky wetness on Erik's hands must be blood.

"Erik, are you hurt?" rasps Charles, and his agitated hand lands somewhere on Erik's chest, anxiously checking for any wounds.

"No," cuts him off Erik impatiently, quietly. "But you were five seconds away from suffocating. Explain everything right now."

"I called Raven, she told me where to find you. Here we are, helping you to escape."

"She dragged you here," hissed Erik.

"She didn't," Charles tried shaking his head but it resulted in painful spasm.

Erik interpreted his groan correctly.

"Damn! Enough, don't speak."

The second explosion throws them both to the ground and, seeing that history likes repeating itself, Charles is naturally destined to cushion Erik's fall one more time. The repetition of the uninvited experience hurts a lot and the dull ache gradually fills his entire body, from head to toe.

"Charles," somehow Erik is already kneeling next to him, carefully cradling Charles' head and muttering. "Don't you dare black out on me again. Come on, get up."

"There are, is an escape route, down the corridor, since the stairs are, urgh," pain cuts into his back like a sharpened razor and Charles sucks in a sharp breath. Smoke. Indeed, he overdid it. According to his calculations, fire shouldn't have been spreading that fast.

He sat up, heavily leaning against Erik. No time to rest, but he desperately needs a minute to clear his head before attempting anything else.

"For you," Charles blindly reaches for the borrowed Walter P99 and makes Erik take it. "Don't worry, I have the spare one. I only need to reload it. Here," he shuffles, drops the loading case.

Erik is breathing steadily by his side, silently helping him to locate and reload it; his hands are brushing Charles' in a surreal frenzy.

They stand up together and Charles is bracing himself for the quick dash down the corridor, when suddenly the door is banged open and bright white light lashes out at his eyes.

.

.

.


	9. Chapter 9

.

.

.

Truth be told, Erik knew long ago, that Charles' mind was somewhat out of the standard, human realm. But knowing is one thing and witnessing is another. When Erik came within a hair's breadth of dispatching the henchman he had run into as soon as he barely escaped intact from that goddamn room, he abruptly caught the ghost sound of his name, and, driven by rising fear, had to gulp down many strong curses. What he did say in the end was only the very tip of an iceberg. He was livid when he pushed Charles through the door, but no matter how potent his anger was it has leveled after he heard the telltale strangled breathing. Together with the striking realization that he's just almost killed Charles came pain of the non distinguishable quality.

And after the explosion, when Erik has called his name and found out that Charles was out cold; limp and not responding — a dreadful chill ran down his spine. Thankfully, Charles woke up soon. Perhaps, later, when they get out from here Erik will do his best to make sense of the things happening now. Later, he promised himself and tried to cool off.

Someone barged in and Erik instinctively darted to the side and opened fire, noticing from the corner of his eye how Charles dropped to one knee and did the same. He registered intense pain in his left side and shoulder but let it slide for now. The enemy carrying a flashlight went down and the light died out. Someone was practically howling in pain outside the now open door. Forcefully, Erik stomped on the unnecessary and dangerous emotional reaction, and, using a momentary pause provided by the fallen guard, rushed forward.

Charles followed. Apparently, they were on the same wavelength. Retreating back to the room with no exit meant death by smoke inhalation. Judging by the increased foul smell and itching in his eyes the fire was getting closer.

Due to adrenaline, his heartbeat was hammering in his ears so loudly, that he missed the moment Charles retrieved the flashlight and turned it on.

Erik blinked to readjust his eyes. In the circle of light on the floor, just on the doorstep there was a body of the man, twitching and convulsing in the puddle of dark blood, his hands tearing at the torn stomach. Damn it! Erik reacted immediately and the shot left an unpleasant, acid taste in his mouth. Now, with a bullet lodged in his brains he, at least, stopped making noise. The second body lay crumbled in a heap next to the door of the opposite room. Erik came closer, careful not to step on the fresh corpse and nudged it with a foot. It never hurts to make sure.

Good, this one is dead too.

Up till now, Erik didn't have a chance to spare a look at his partner. As he made up his mind to do so, he turned around and was caught up in the strange eye lock moment. Making eye contact with Charles certainly became as easy a habit as breathing for him and could be taken as an eerie form of communication. Though, right now, he struggled to read the solemn yet vehement look Charles was giving him. Half-lit, his pale face with firmly thinned lips, dirtied with smears of blood and grime, ceased to be recognizable. Erik felt a pang of something in his stomach, grimacing internally. Some scarring experience, yeah…

Then, Charles' huge eyes widened even more and he opened his mouth to say something, but instead of uttering any words he started to cough.

The light in his hands shook. Erik was by his side in a flash, snatching the flashlight and sliding his arm round Charles' shoulders. Something was telling Erik that such a friendly gesture was not completely useless, despite the fact, that it couldn't make Charles unfeel the effects of the smoke filling the air.

"Erik, is that yours?" croaked Charles between the coughs rocking his frame. "The blood."

"Yes," Erik saw no point in lying. Besides, it's high time to see for himself; he bent the flashlight to observe the damage. To do that he had to release his hold on Charles.

Upon briefly inspecting his side, he found out that the bullet has only grazed the ribs. It was bleeding allright, but nothing too serious. The second injury was putting his left shoulder on fire. He had trouble distancing himself away from that hot, pulsating pain.

Having recovered, Charles leaned closer, absently unknotting his own tie, rich blue today if Erik is not mistaken, and then fastening it round the wound, applying tight and unforgiving pressure. Erik kept almost all sounds in.

Charles looks up, tightening his make-shift garrot. His expression is completely covered by shadows.

"Sorry, it's dirty, but we must stop the bleeding with something."

"What about you? Why is your face…"

"You were touching me earlier," explains Charles, gently. "Your hands are all covered in blood. I am fine otherwise. Let's go."

Grimly, Erik nodded and while Charles was reloading their guns, his mind was running at breakneck speed. He must have killed Leland. After recovering from the explosion he jumped to his feet and in the grayish light from the window was able to discern the fatso covering behind the overturned table. He gladly ended him right there. Well, Erik was not one hundred percent sure, but he had put at least two bullets into the bastard and left him yelling in pain. With his failing heart, he shouldn't survive. That leaves Frank and how many: two, three or maybe four functional men. That's bad. That fucking cockroach alone proved to be very hard to kill, springing up from nowhere time and again.

Erik shared his musings with Charles in a carefully measured, hushed voice. They were walking quickly but cautiously, with Charles leading the way and Erik backing him up.

"Understood," he hears in return. "Is this man inclined to wait for you outside? Just in case you survived?"

"His grudge versus the storm? I don't even know."

Charles produces a partially suppressed, short laugh, which lightens Erik's mood a little.

"We will find out soon."

For Erik next minutes were more or less a wild blur of motion on their part. He couldn't believe it when Charles tugged him through some narrow doorway, then kicked open another door: at this point he was coughing almost non stop, and Erik's vision started swimming. The window was stuck so in the end Erik has just broken the glass with the chair. A gust of chilly air and rainwater hit his face. After the mad race from scorching heat it felt divine. Fire roared behind them and Charles urged him to go first.

Fuck, frankly speaking Erik has expected something more solid. A very important aspect of fire safety in this case is a damn iron ladder, which is very obviously rusty and dangerous in good weather, not to mention the current violent downpour. It'd better not fall to pieces — Erik used his good hand to maneuver himself out of the window. Immediately, a deluge of water drenched him, effectively rendering him blind. Damn, Erik stubbornly shook his head, not that it was helping, and continued his torturous journey. The ladder ended abruptly. He looked down, wondering why his foot found no purchase whatsoever. Ah, excellent.

He landed from a jump incorrectly and, unbalanced, couldn't center his weight. Charles mentioned that Raven should be waiting for them somewhere near here, didn't he? The blood loss was getting to him.

Charles landed much more gracefully — he acknowledged it with a wry smile.

Shit! He grabbed Charles, but stumbled, and as the result nearly fell on his face, dragging Charles down with him. His knees collided with a ground, but he felt nothing. Erik silently thanked his instincts for saving them again for there was a dark figure running towards them and Erik could swear that through the mad pounding in his head he could hear rifle going off.

"Erik! Hold on!" demanded Charles, screaming right in his ear, which was not good for his throat. "It's Raven! Calm down!"

No, Erik shook his head.

"Behind you."

"Oh my," Charles gaped at body of the fallen assailant ten feet from where they were hunkering down. He said something else, Erik didn't hear what, and squeezed his eyes shut. That was so typically Charles.

"Hello, fellas!" Raven crouched next to them and squinted at Erik, grimacing. "Are you smiling? Charles, look here, it seems we've lost him."

That fleeting, tender sensation was gone in a second.

"Raven, Erik's injured," and again Charles finished his sentence with a cough.

Erik stood up with difficulty, shrugging away help and purposefully staggered to the body sprawled on the ground. Something was turning over in his head, and the hellish chain of events that has just occurred together with the overwhelming heaviness, were testing his resolve. Never before has the possibility of suffering and dying had that kind of impact. Maybe, he is too tired and too old for this.

He looked down at Frank's mangled corpse, blood and brains marring the water around him. Nice job, Raven.

There is no comfort in this, he realized with sick twist in his soul. Will there ever be?

"Erik," Charles leaned closer, tugging at his sleeve to attract attention. "It's over. Let's go, shall we?"

Oh, Charles, it's far from over. New always come in the place of the old ones.

.

.

.

Bright, fine days without a cloud in the sky were a real blessing after the storm. The weather was lovely: pleasantly dry and sunny. The damages inflicted by the storm to the city communications were fairly extensive as predicted. Dozens of people were injured, some houses and cars ruined beyond restoring, and others desecrated by water and mud. But all the same, the disaster was over.

Charles, however, didn't have it in himself to share the general good mood. He had the feeling of a man standing for god knows how long on the crossway. The instability and unnaturalness of his current state of mind bothered him. A week has passed since that day. And a whole week Erik was avoiding him. Having appeared at work despite doctor's order three days ago, he would disappear in his office for a while or leave in haste all of a sudden. These days he seemed to be always on the phone: talking, arguing or, when he was especially mad, conversing in short, curt sentences Charles was used to.

Erik was dealing with repercussions, reminded himself Charles, absently staring at the computer screen. He was sternly ordered in no uncertain terms to go on as if nothing had happened. Luckily Charles was not the one with his arm in the sling. And his persistent nasty cough could be blamed on weather. So Charles ended up conjuring a clear and simple lie for Sean and Hank, explaining his strange behavior and departure that fateful afternoon. He felt that they were looking at him with intriguing wonder, as if they couldn't understand what he meant. Above all, he began to notice many things he had never paid attention to before, out of habit. It seemed as though the world itself has changed, and Charles, a faithful observer, was the only one to detect it.

To tell the truth, he made a firm resolution to accept the consequences or so he was foolishly telling himself. Damage he singlehandedly was responsible for, and what was worse, people he murdered put him into one line with the most notorious criminals of the city. He expected to be dragged into the interrogation room the following morning and then it was either a prison sentence or… Future has never looked so bleak. What course of thinking, of life to pursue now he didn't know. Yet, he refused to be dragged into the bottomless void of guilt and self-loafing. They had not survived for nothing. He eagerly embraced this thought; indeed, he couldn't back out at this point.

"Knock, knock," Angel was holding a stack of papers in front of his eyes. "Sorry to interrupt the daydreaming session here, can I have the minute of your time?"

"Yes," shrugged Charles apologetically, contemplating his slumbering unease. "What is this?"

"We've been talking about it this morning. I need Lehnsherr's signature, but he ran away again. I'm going home and I'm taking a day off yesterday, so could you please do it for me?"

"I will," he promised himself to try and drop all concerns out of his long-suffering mind, which were, therefore, interfering with his work.

"Charles," she abruptly bent and reached to ruffle his hair in the most tender and distinctly motherly fashion.

Charles stiffened from such unexpected gesture and looked up at her in bewilderment. While for Angel to do it was positively out of character, Charles was also never babied as a kid enough to get used to such fondling. It sent a strong thrill through his core, partly pleasure and partly upsetting, miserable pain.

"I just wanted to do it for a while," confessed Angel, smiling a little. She crossed her hands in front of her chest and looked at him with warm, dark eyes. "Nobody cheers you up for some reason. And since you do it for me I decided to return the favor. Or, I dunno, I think, I wanted to mess with your hair too," she added, snidely.

"You are blatantly honest," he finally overcame the stupor.

"Well, whatever," she said.

"Thank you, dear."

She waved him off as she turned around and went to retrieve her bag. They exchanged goodbyes and Charles was left alone. If only he could stay here the night without raising suspicion. Goodness, what is he thinking…

When clock was striking ten he decided that he couldn't stall any more. As he moved to stand up he was startled by the blunt voice and remained suspended on the spot like a captured, frightened animal.

"I though, nobody was in," Erik regarded him with steady gaze.

"I was going to leave," Charles said.

"Can you stay for a moment? We have to talk."

This was exactly the same request Charles had on the tip of his tongue so he nodded.

Erik left the door to his office open. Charles came in and couldn't contain a disbelieving frown at the mess Erik's desk and bookcase has become. Nobody dared to disturb Erik in there, and upon Erik's order Charles refrained from doing it either.

"How is you shoulder?" ventured Charles after seeing that Erik has taken notice of his unabashed staring.

"Hurts," supplied Erik, unhelpfully.

"Still? Ah, Erik… This can't be good. Are you taking any painkillers?"

"No, it doesn't distract me that much."

Charles wanted to punch him: preferably, in the injured shoulder. To make the point.

"I have bigger things to worry about," grunted Erik.

"Are you going to be allright?"

"I suppose so," he smirked and beckoned Charles closer. "Can you come here?"

Frowning, Charles stepped up, circling the desk and meanwhile wondering what this entire charade was about.

"Here you are," Erik put his good hand on Charles' shoulder and with disturbing ease and masterful push made him sit in his chair. Charles gave a surprised gasp and clutched the armrest.

"How is it?"

"What?"

"The chair," said Erik patiently.

"A bit stiff," replied Charles, his throat as dry as a desert.

"You can always replace it. Not a big deal."

Oh my god, this is actually happening. He glanced at Erik, and seeing that he was silently waiting for his reaction, leaped up from the chair, which made a loud, heart-rending screech in protest.

"Before you say anything, I was going to resign anyway. Give or take a year or two. This is the least I could have bargained for, a win-win situation."

His calm tone seemed to deprive Charles of the last vestige of self-reserve. He was ready to open his mouth and utter something embarrassing and totally unjust, when all the pent-up tension, which he was nurturing for months, became insufferably overpowering and, finally, crumbled.

"I," Charles hesitates, "I'll do my best, Erik. If you are sure that you can trust me with this."

"Who else can I trust?"

"I also have something I want you to know," smiles Charles and reveres Erik's intense, focused attention he enjoys so much. "I was, no, I am such a coward. No, this is not what you think it is. Please, listen till the end," he draws in a deep, soothing breath. "From the very beginning, I've been attracted to you, and in spite of everything that makes us so different I felt that I could relate to you. You used to mean so much to me as a friend and you mean even more to me now."

Erik looks slightly uncomfortable, perhaps, a touch intrigued; he says nothing but indicates that he is listening with a nod.

"For a while, all I wanted was to make you feel the same, to make you reciprocate. Has it ever occurred to me that my feelings may not be something between us, but mine, my own? Very special, but only for me. Not until now," Charles gulps down a lump. "For I realized, Erik, that I love you so much that I can, will be content to live, just knowing that you're well, that you are safe. No matter where you are, no matter whether you respond or not… I want you so much, in every imaginable way. Oh, probably, I shouldn't have said that," only now Charles registers hot tears streaming down his face, making him lighter, making him free. "I won't , uh, I just felt it would be right to tell you. And, I can't deny it — I selfishly wanted to get rid of the burden. Not that I consider my love to you a burden, because it is so far the most wonderful experience in my life."

During the long moment of silence stretching between them, Charles watches Erik. Tears are not helping, blurring his vision and refusing to stop.

"I should go," offers Charles at last. "I reckon, now I'll be able to catch up on my sleep." He is telling the truth, he hasn't felt that relaxed and stress-free for a while.

When he is almost out of the room, Erik's words reach him.

"Charles, give me some time to think."

"Of course. Take your time, my friend."

And he was gone.

.

.

.

He strode through the park, scarcely heeding where he went and descended towards the stream cutting the narrow valley in half. Nightly shadows and mysterious rustles disappeared, as vague morning light altered the thicket, made it appear less dreadful and tangled. On the horizon, through trees, he saw a pinkish stripe of light indicating the beginning of a sunrise.

Early in the morning, the park was almost deserted with the exception of a few joggers and a couple of incoherent, sleep-deprived dog owners. Erik would have jogged himself, if not for the grim realization that strenuous activity didn't go well with the recent injuries and blood loss. He would never admit aloud that he was still having the stupid bouts of dizziness. That's why he took on walking. At any rate fresh air is the best doctor and the strange blending of odours in this part of the park consisted of something pleasant and unutterably greenish and crispy, courtesy of some pines, loyally cleansing the horrible atmosphere of the city.

At first he was greatly irritated that Raven dared to disturb him in the middle of night again. This time it was a phone call. Although, it was only to inform him that certain people are not that forgetful and that she is going to fulfill her dream and travel around the world. She dropped an unsubtle suggestion that he should do the same. As if it wasn't evident. Raven was free to do whatever she wanted. Erik, on the other hand, had duties. Namely, there was only one duty — Charles. Who could have known that they would make such an impressive progress, from the wary and even cold beginning on his part, they passed through every gradation of forming mutual respect, friendship and trust, and now Charles goes and makes a declaration, which hits Erik like a ton of bricks. It's not that he doubts Charles' words, his sincerity, his honest belief that his feelings are fine unreciprocated. Erik himself could never be satisfied with that, he would demand and he would force the confidence, sometimes when it is uncalled for. He nearly laughed out loud when he realized that he wasn't considering the gender issue at all. Perhaps, he was finally wise enough not to do so. And as far as physical attraction is concerned, Charles had always stood out as a pretty one from the start, with boyish air and plenty of charm, until Erik started paying more attention to his features, mainly to expressive and bright eyes and different kinds of smile. Not to mention that… here he stopped in his tracks and barked a short bitter laugh. He already likes Charles a lot, isn't he?

Logan was the one to meet him on the crime scene later in the morning. Finally, Erik will get rid of his highly annoying persona. Though, Logan will surely come in handy for Charles in case heavy artillery is needed. Erik felt a twinge of newly acquired jealousy at the thought and cast a long, testy look at the bastard, a look intended to convey the proper amount of menace and healthy intimidation.

Unfortunately, the officer assigned to guard the restricted area happened to be looking in his direction instead. Poor sod paled and nearly jumped out of his skin when Erik pushed his way through the door into the crowded room.

Greeting MacTaggert with a nod, he silently listened to her preliminary report. Then, he thanked her in the end. The disbelieving funny expression on her thin face was priceless.

On the way to the precinct he made Logan retell him the story of the yesterday's big success. Erik was not there to witness the capture of the rabid punk, who was responsible for the infamous mass murder, but knew from the phone conversation with Salvatore that the final act should be credited to Cassidy and odd stroke of luck. Well, life is full of surprises. And little pleasures: like Logan, grudgingly squeezing out words describing his screw up Erik's already known about.

Hoping to have a talk with Charles as soon as possible and preferably face to face, Erik was disappointed to find only McCoy and Cassidy loitering near the copy machine; both of them were still bearing the traces of awkward, teenager behavior. He was afraid that Cassidy would twist his sorry neck — he turned upon Erik calling his name so fast, that he probably managed to hurt himself in the process.

"Sir, there are papers for you to sign," he hastened to approach Charles' desk and took a pile. "Angel needed to hand them over to records yesterday, but you were not here."

"So she shuffled off a duty on Charles, and he passed it on you," yes, Erik is really glad that he leaves.

"Something like that," said McCoy from the sidelines, sighing.

"Where is he, by the way?"

Erik has not been prudently setting himself up for their conversation all morning for nothing.

"You missed each other by ten minutes."

"Did he tell anyone where he was going?"

"Now when you ask about it," McCoy's eyes shifted up and then down, while he was recollecting the moment, no doubt. "No, he didn't. But Charles left in a hurry, so I assume…"

"Damn it," it was frustrating, and in the light of past events it was enough to make him worried. To hell with it, he needed to know where Charles was.

Of course, he had no idea that he said all of that aloud.

"It sort of reminds me of Charles, a week ago," suddenly observed Cassidy, more thoughtfully than needed. Here, Erik was witnessing a poorly concealed attempt at emotional manipulation, but let Cassidy go on. He was more than willing to play along. Little did Charles know what kind of people Erik was going to foist off on him.

"I think, I know," hummed McCoy. "Recently,"

"Come on, McCoy, you're going with me," snapped Erik, cutting him off midsentence, and put the phone back into the pocket — the line was busy. Great, just when he absolutely couldn't lose sight of Charles. He didn't like any of this.

"Has you driving improved?" he asked when they were on the parking lot. After all, currently Erik had only one functioning arm and he needed it to speak on the phone, a simple thing with no fancy settings.

"Yes, it did. Um, so I was thinking about that problem Charles had with his apartment…"

Erik cursed — of course, he has completely forgotten about Charles' personal psycho.

They arrived in record time. Relieved, Erik paid attention to McCoy pointing to something on his left. Erik turned and saw Charles' car, parked nearby. They were right deciding to come to his place. But why isn't he picking up? Heavy and sick foreboding settled in Erik's chest: it was no false alarm, for false alarm simply didn't do it for Erik.

In the elevator, when McCoy pressed the button he had to correct him.

"One more floor up," he said with confidence coming from years of almost paranoid suspicion paying off.

At the necessary door McCoy looked at him, diligently waiting for directions.

"We're probably going to break a couple of laws, so listen to me attentively," quietly said Erik. "Charles is your priority. I'll deal with Stryker myself."

After Erik's nudge McCoy pushed the door, which opened without a protest. Erik stepped in first, reading the gun.

But, he never expected to bump into Stryker, sobbing and shaking like a leaf. His clammy, cold palms latched on to Erik's hand and his bloodshot, terrified eyes were wildly darting between him and McCoy.

"Please, help me!" he cried and Erik's heart skipped a beat. "I don't know, oh my god, I can't remember…but, he, he isn't breathing. Please!"

.

.

.


	10. Chapter 10

.

.

.

Dimly, Charles remembers the agony of strangulation, when your chest is wheezing and you fight the terrible losing battle for every breath of air, as sickening horror settles deeply inside and you're drowning in panic, like in the deceptively safe quicksand because struggles only worsen your state. For some time he was simply lost in terror and filled with a vivid sense of noninvolvement. This is a quintessence of his life and all the humor of it, decides Charles, when crushing pressure on his chest easies a little and oxygen fills his lungs. Gods, it hurts. The restored ability to draw in air hurts so much that he involuntary coughs in breathless agony and his body writhers in a dreadfully painful spasm. Everything burns and brings him nearer to the difficult choice he has to make. Either he tries to wrestle with the pain and grapple his swimming consciousness into obedience or he can already give up and go under. Naturally, he chooses the hard way.

Recovering consciousness is not something you can expertly master, even in this line of work. Nevertheless, Charles tries to follow a humble pattern of gathering as much information on his surroundings as possible, and, if possible, without alerting people to the fact that he's come around. You never know where you may be waking up, grimly thinks he, mindful of revealing experience of the past.

Soon, voices are coming into focus. Gradually, they become less muffled and he can hear separate words.

"Please, don't hover, sir. Look, he is breathing, he will be fine."

"Then why isn't he waking up, McCoy?"

"Do I look like a doctor to you?"

Ah, Erik is going to verbally abuse poor Hank again.

Joy instantly rises in Charles, warm and rich like wine.

Finally, with effort, he manages to open his eyes a little, enough to catch a fleeting glimpse of handsome face. Erik is really hovering too much.

"Charles," simply says Erik, sounding absolutely exhausted and worn out.

"I think, you've had a respiratory arrest," informs him Hank's shaky voice, clueless of the moment. "I've called an ambulance, but, um, I'm so glad that I learned how to perform CPR."

Charles is even ten times gladder.

"Where…" he weakly attempts, gazing into Erik's eyes — and Erik understands.

"Stryker is fine. For now," he harshly says with sudden violence and orders. "McCoy, go check on him. Hurry up!"

When Hank disappears from Charles' peripheral vision, Erik carefully sneaks his arm round Charles' shoulders and slowly leans in until their foreheads touch. The closeness is truly intoxicating; it grows beautifully inside: an amazing, blissful spark within him turns into a flame. Charles senses and recognizes the gentleness of the gesture, the unspoken awareness of the mutual bond. It seems as if they can talk without really exchanging words, reaching the stage where words turn into useless, crude imitations of real communication. Just by touching him Erik shows Charles how important he is for Erik, and enables Charles to read his mind like an open book. Embracing this wonderful gift he shudders, dazed from glee and overjoyed.

The spell is broken by the paramedics rushing into the room, tailed by ruffled Hank. It is rather funny, tiredly muses Charles, when Erik starts ordering them around as well. But all the same, he has to step aside and now a young man is kneeling by his side, taking his pulse and carefully probing the swelling on his longsuffering throat. He asks questions which Erik immediately answers, while injecting Charles with something akin to liquid fire. To counter the allergic reaction, he explains, which caused the airway blockage.

Charles knows the term anaphylactic shock tossed around by the young doctor and his assistant. Splendid, he has nearly died because of a mere allergy. Neither fire nor bullets and crazy maniacs were able to kill him. But allergen? A piece of cake.

"I can stand on my own," persistently repeats Charles and using Erik's arm for support he does. He generally feels as though he's suffering from a particularly offensive hangover: he is nauseated and his head is pounding, but at least he can speak, as the medication starts taking an effect.

"McCoy," Erik calls and Hank immediately jumps to attention. "You'll accompany him, understood?"

"Yes, sir," replies Hank.

"I expect you to tell him what the hell happened here," adds Erik lowering his voice, only for Charles to hear.

When in two hours and a half Charles was left alone in the hospital room with the every intention to leave it as soon as possible, Hank has slid in. Charles was in the middle of putting on his jacket, so his plans were as clear as a day even for someone much more thick-witted than Hank. It occurred to him that Hank was the one to save his life directly and to Charles this fact seemed excessively awkward. Inside, he was torn between the stunning realizations how worried he made his friends without meaning to and rather reasonable fear of how close he came to losing his life again. In the agitation of the previous events he has disregarded the issue completely.

"Do you hate it here that much?" Hank appeared unusually concerned.

"You have no idea."

"You know," slowly said Hank, deeply immersed in thought, "when we saw you there, on the floor, and your skin has turned almost blue, like that of the corpse, I became so scared. It was, um, all was so terrible. I gathered that we were too late, but…"

"Erik doesn't give up unless he tries every option available," Charles foresaw that it would be difficult for him to continue. "You too, by the way. Thank you."

"Should I say don't mention it?" flushed Hank, as he ran his fingers through his hair.

"I don't know," answered Charles, with an encouraging smile. "Sounds fine to me."

They ended taking a taxi together and Charles briefly wondered where he should go from here. It wasn't late enough to come back to the hotel and Erik is not going to let him get back to work without a doubt. Well, he decides then that he needs to fetch his car anyway.

"It's extraordinary," remarked Hank. He seemed to be still thinking over everything Charles has told him. "Human mind has such great complexity, both structural and functional."

"The downside of that complexity is that sometimes we're completely unaware," Charles fell silent abruptly. He was casting the first stone and was powerless against the guilt welling up in him. Falling into the trap of his personality disorder was not Jason's fault. He did try to make the acknowledgement of the sorts and Charles was the one he was willing to speak to, to tell that something wrong was going on. He probably felt himself slipping then. And at the time Charles was busy planning a rescue mission. Again, considering his strange fixation on Charles... Uncomfortable and saddened, he rationalizes that probably he'd be better off if he stopped dwelling too much on it. His mood quite sorrowful, Charles looked out of the window at the city contentedly going on living, lying and loving.

If anything, he learned from this life-threatening experience that even an innocent glass of water offered by a deceptively sane neighbor can possibly hold drugs, which can possibly result in him falling victim to violent allergic reaction. Lately, he chooses to throw basic caution to wind too often. That won't do. From now on he will be responsible for the others, and only now Charles started to comprehend the weight of the burden, which he accepted earlier without a word of protest. Being in charge meant so much. Erik, despite his tough, no-nonsense, and, let's not bend the truth, discourteous approach, pulled it off remarkably good. He kept others safe, he commanded and yet he drilled them in everything they needed. Goodness, Charles really loves the man. But will he ever be able to do the same?

.

.

.

"It's too soon," sulkily complained Charles, when Erik pushed the box full of different shit, that kept accumulating in the office for some time in his direction.

"What is there?" curious, Charles didn't wait for his answer, instead proceeded to dig into the box, letting out a displeased hum. "Erik, are you sure that you want me to throw it away? Look, this is a lovely photo, hmm, is that you in the uniform? We absolutely can't dispose of it."

"Do whatever you want," grunted Erik and immediately regretted it as Charles looked at him with cheerfully sparkling eyes.

Personally, Erik can't bring himself to understand what was making Charles so elated. Those keepsakes meant literally nothing to him; they were lifeless pieces of crap, merely collecting dust and mostly good for nothing. What was new and interesting for him, what he could understand and appreciate was the present he had right here and now. Living like this made things less complicated.

"Wait! I will take it," Charles hurried to his side, when he noticed that Erik was unsuccessfully attempting to shut the damn drawer on the top shelf, holding a stack of holders in his right hand. Although out of the sling, his arm has been still bothering him, not that he expected anything else.

Charles leaned closer to help him, the faint blush on his cheeks was hardly there for anyone who was not as observant as Erik and could be mistaken for the one which usually accompanies exertion. He smelled nicely too, discovered Erik and stifled a sudden desire to pull Charles into his arms and… he forcefully stopped a mental image from taking shape, wary of untamed ferocity stirring in him at the thought. Something wrong was going on with him. How else does one explain these sharp impulses? He couldn't recall losing his mind over the prospect of sex to the degree that it was bordering on the obsession.

"You could have agreed to have a dinner with us," starts Charles, obviously being under wrong impression that if he repeats it often enough, Erik will miraculously agree to spend an evening in the company of people who grudgingly tolerated him and whom he barely tolerated at all.

"There is no need for any farewell dinner and you know it," he casually remarks. "Besides, don't let them make it into practice. You will regret it later."

"I'm afraid, I can't hope to master your ways," laughs Charles and in doing so he rests his hip against the desk, sweeping his eyes round the almost bare room.

Erik is a good listener, so he hears the unvoiced uncertainty, very poorly masked by that teasing tone, but he shrugs it off. He has seen people start from doubts and rise to confidence and vice versa. And Charles, truly worthy in every way, doesn't really need his reassurance. He will figure it in no time on his own.

"Everyone will be missing you, even if they don't want to admit this," seriously says Charles, but his blue eyes twinkle a little as he finishes his sentence.

"I'm sure they will," replies Erik in the same fashion. "How is your search for accommodation going on? Any luck?"

"Actually, I think, I'll settle on the second variant. The place is bigger than I need, but…"

"Move in with me," offered Erik mildly.

"Erik," Charles' refuses to meet his eyes. "Don't you think that we're doing it backwards? We hadn't even, you know…"

"Yes, I do know, but I also don't have any doubts. Charles, don't make me say it aloud."

"Okay."

"It's settled then."

"So fast," murmurs Charles, ruffling his hair.

"I'd say that it's not fast enough," points out Erik frigidly and then adds, just to prompt the reaction, which, he knows, will be pretty amusing. "Either way it's more convenient. At least now we can have as much sex as we want and nobody can say that you're sleeping with me solely for the job."

Charles doesn't disappoint him — he turns as red as tomato. Well, what Erik views as good-natured fun causes anxiety for unsuspecting victims.

He doesn't want to stress Charles further though, if further is possible.

"Relax, I didn't mean to embarrass you so much."

"No," it is Charles' turn to surprise him this time, "I'm actually glad that you want it as much as I do. What I wanted to say earlier," he laughs again, lightly, "we've not even kissed yet and I didn't want to impose, seeing as you asked me to give you time."

"We're damn fucking stupid," summarizes Erik and to his delight Charles gives him one of his best genuine smiles.

"We truly are," he says in mock disbelief.

Someone knocks at the door and Charles sighs, exasperated.

"No privacy at all," he mutters and there's a promise in his words.

.

.

.

"So, they put him in the madhouse?" bluntly asks Logan, pretending that he doesn't notice Angel's acid looks.

"It's called institution nowadays," drily says Charles. "And yes, you are right. Can we move on to something else?"

Whatever objection Logan was ready to utter, Sean has beat him to it.

"Here's a toast," he exclaims. "To the best team!"

"Neat but not gaudy," quietly comments Hank and raises his glass.

Angel rolled her eyes at them and quickly clinked glasses with Charles.

Beware the repetition of Moira's wedding, Charles was drinking juice and was also watching his glass like a hawk. He had already experienced enough embarrassment to last a lifetime, thank you very much.

Evening was progressing swiftly, so swiftly indeed that Charles' watch was proudly displaying midnight when they finally walked out of the restaurant. Hank lived nearby, so he dragged stumbling Sean along. Angel refused his polite offer to give her a lift and said that she has always wanted to meet Logan's girlfriend. While the man was in the bathroom she snatched his phone, called her and told a whiny tale, masterfully painting the night of drunk debauchery in bright colors. According to Angel, she will be arriving any minute. Goodness, Charles didn't want to witness that. Pranksters, all of them. At times, Charles felt subjectively older when something like this happened. Thus, he made himself scarce.

The decision, however spontaneous, suddenly seems impeccably rational. He needs to see Erik. Charles realizes that he agreed upon moving his things tomorrow in the evening and Erik shouldn't expect him late at night. He stops questioning himself and here he is — standing at Erik's door.

Night sky is ideal for stargazing, lit with millions of stars glittering brightly throughout enormous distances. There is a whole universe out there, eternal and majestic, marvels Charles.

Erik opens the door. He stands dark and tall, silhouetted against the illuminated doorway. An afterimage briefly floats before his eyes as Charles tilts his head up and asks.

"May I come in?"

"You don't need to ask anymore," Erik makes a brusque, but welcoming gesture.

Charles steps in and Erik closes the door behind him, as if cutting off the rest of the world.

Without giving Erik time to properly turn around Charles bravely puts his hands around the back of his head, brushes short hair on his nape and softly pulls Erik closer. Erik immediately responds by placing his hands on his back and in instant they are caught in a lip lock. It tingles, and warm soothing sensation in Charles' heart continues to grow as Erik presses him closer and kisses him deeper and impossibly harder.

Perfect.

.

.

.


End file.
